


Fortune's Fool

by tellmesomethinglove



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmesomethinglove/pseuds/tellmesomethinglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CS High School AU: Emma Nolan and Killian Jones were inseparable until secret affections forced them down separate paths. But a fateful encounter one night leaves Emma wondering if they were ever just friends-and is it too late to make things right? Captain Swan/Lieutenant Duckling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her eyes shied away from the tubes and wires that seemed to drain the life from her mother’s veins.  Her ears turned from the soft yet deafening hum of the respirator as her mother’s chest rose and fell with the effort it took to breathe.  The nurse came frequently to check on them, but Emma remained restless, crossing and uncrossing her legs over and again, her hands never loosening their grip on the small wooden frame as its corners made depressions in her skin.  The photograph once made its home in her mom’s desk drawer, and Emma used to fish it out every so often just to stare at the persons depicted, imagining a time when her parents were civil toward one another.  Not only civil, but in love.

_“Madly,”_ Ruby often corrected, _“Madly in love.”_

What must that have been like?

The ticking of the wall clock drowned out all other sounds until it was beating in rhythm to Emma’s heart.  She uncrossed her legs, letting her feet lay flat against the beige and white checkerboard floor.  There came an anguished cry just down the hall, and Emma watched every head at the nurse’s station turn.  She chewed her bottom lip, checking the time again.

6:37.

It wasn’t that Emma hated hospitals.  They just…made her uncomfortable.  Maybe it was this one in particular.  She was born in the room across the hall, back when this wing of the hospital was the maternity ward.  Victor had rushed her through the emergency room doors when she broke her arm during a fight at school—her first and last.  Her grandfather died before they were able to wheel his stretcher past triage.

It wasn’t that Emma hated hospitals.  But this one held too many memories for her to remain at ease.  It now held Mary Margaret as one of its captives.

“Are you still here?”

Emma looked up, startled by sound of her mother’s voice.  “Where else would I be?”

“You don’t have to stay, honey.  Leroy will be here soon.”

“Leroy isn’t family.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Mary Margaret’s downstairs neighbor and Emma’s self-appointed uncle, Leroy, was far too protective for his own good.  But Emma was secretly glad her mom wasn’t alone on the days she had to stay at her dad’s.

_One more year._   She sighed.

Just one more year and all this ridiculous custody business would be over.

“Avoiding the step-monster again?”

Emma smiled.  “It’s harder than it sounds.”

“Hm.”  Mary Margaret shifted beneath the covers, seeking a more comfortable position.  “Well, if you’re going to stay, the least you can do is fill me in on the latest news.”

The latest news.  By this, she always meant gossip—the juicier the better—though she would never admit it.  Emma tried to think, tried to ignore the desperate cries of the man down the hall.

“I don’t know that there is any news since yesterday.”

Mary Margaret grinned.  “You could always tell me about that boy.”

Emma’s body acted on impulse, her legs re-crossing, her hand reaching to brush the hair behind her ear, but the heart that had previously beat in unsettling harmony with the ticks of the wall clock froze within her chest.  There was only one boy she thought about anymore, and even then it was to remind herself that she was better off without him.

What did she need with someone who could be so easily persuaded by long dark lashes and a cunning smile?

“What boy?”

Mary Margaret looked at her with a face that wasn’t fooled.  “You know what boy.”

Then again, maybe it wasn’t _him_ she was thinking of—the last time her mom had wanted to hear about “that boy,” was just before Emma’s sixteenth birthday, when she’d been completely infatuated with the son of Robert Gold.  Aside from the boy himself, and Will, who’d had the misfortune of walking in unannounced, Mary Margaret was the only living soul who knew anything about that short-lived romance.

“Neal, well he’s—”

“No, no,” she waved her hand, “the other one.”

Emma swallowed thickly as she watched two men in white coats poring over patient charts on their way past the nurse’s station.  She didn’t want to talk about this.  She would rather have talked about _anything_ else—her stepmother would’ve proved a better topic of conversation, and the world knew how she felt about her.

“Other one?”

“Blue eyes, great hair, slight brooding quality.”

Emma’s cheeks flamed.  “Oh…him.”

“Yeah, him.”

“What about him?”

“Is he your friend?”

“No…” the corners of Emma’s mouth turned down, “…not anymore.”

“Hm…”

Emma averted her eyes, but it was no use.  She could feel Mary Margaret’s stare on the side of her face, seeking any telltale signs that her daughter was being less than forthcoming.

“He’s cute.”

Emma’s gaze locked on her mom.  “Killian is _not_ cute.”

“Killian?”

_Shit._

Of course she hadn’t meant Killian.  If she wanted to know about Killian, she would’ve said, _“How’s that boy you don’t know you’re going to marry?”_   Emma could see it in her eyes—the same look as the rest of them.  They all thought that Emma liked Killian or he liked her and that the two of them were just so cute they had to giggle about it.

“I don’t like him.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“He won’t even talk to me, and even if he did, he’s become so…so…stuck-up.”

Not that Emma knew what he’d become.  But she couldn’t suffer Mary Margaret’s expression—it was the sort she imagined her stepmother would adopt if ever she awoke with ice in her veins like her stepsister, Ana, and an eagerness to marry the richest man in town and bear rich little sons.  Seeing as the richest man in town after her dad was Robert Gold, that wouldn’t be happening in the foreseeable future.

“He’s just…he’d…I don’t like him.”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

She did _not_ like Killian Jones.

Not in that way.  Not anymore.  She knew his parents, his neighbors, their grade school teachers, even Regina all had this idea that they would fall in love and run off together when they grew up, have a litter of sarcastic kids, live happily ever after…

There was no way they could’ve known how much he’d end up hating her.

There had been a time when the two of them were inseparable, when he’d been the single most important person in Emma’s life.

But they weren’t children anymore.

His choices had forced her down a path she hadn’t wanted to take, but there was no way to forego losing him when he didn’t want to stay.  He didn’t need her anymore, and she couldn’t let the memory trap her—not with her mother watching.  She had finally come to terms with letting go.  It didn’t help matters that she was acutely aware of the fact that her life had been split into two parts, the second infinitely darker than the first.

“So, Neal Cassidy, huh?”  Mary Margaret mulled over this information.  “He’s a nice boy, I think.”  She nodded to herself.  “His father’s a big supporter of David’s campaign, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.  Dad once said he could run on Mr. Gold’s contributions alone.”

Emma cringed.  She hated talking about money with her mom, given the stark contrast between her dad’s estate and the miniscule apartment her mom had to work two jobs just to maintain.

Emma tried to smile for Mary Margaret’s benefit, but she wasn’t confident that the gesture translated as genuine.

“Well, at least you have someone.”

At least she had someone.  She didn’t know why, but that sentiment made her feel empty.  Maybe because her mom was wrong—about all of it.  Emma didn’t have many friends to begin with, and they’d all jumped ship at the first sign of troubled waters.  She’d never been in love, and she’d only had one real relationship since the time she’d turned sixteen (she was informed that playground marriages sealed in ring pops didn’t count).  And Neal Cassidy was not a nice boy.

The clock read 6:57.  It would be getting dark soon.

A knock at the door turned their attention.  “All right, I’m here, the gossip can stop,” said Leroy, standing at the threshold, still dressed in his coveralls.

“We don’t gossip, do we, Emma?”

“Um…”

“Traitor.”  Mary Margaret frowned, turning back to Leroy.  “And anyway, who was the one who told me about the neighbors growing pot on the roof?”

“Just reporting the facts, sister.”

7:01.

Emma moved to her mom’s side, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and set the framed photograph on her bedside table.  “I have to go.”

“Will you come again tomorrow?”  She looked up with hopeful eyes, but all Emma saw was a grim reminder that she wasn’t as well as her bright smile would have everyone believe.

“Of course.”  Emma tried to smile past the thought.  “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, honey.”

 

—

 

The autumn air grew cold as the winds picked up, and the leaves swirled in circles on the ground.  Emma crossed her arms for warmth as her threadbare coat failed to shelter her from the elements.  It was the one possession her stepmother abhorred more than most incompetent people who had the misfortune of finding themselves in her employ.  For one thing, it didn’t boast a designer label, but was purchased at a retail store for half-off and was given to Emma by Killian’s mom.  It was by far Emma’s favorite article of clothing and she wore it all through the winter months, though it did little to keep her warm.

Her steps weren’t hurried; she was less than eager to hear what she’d done wrong this time—and she would, no doubt, as soon as she stepped foot through the front door and attempted to creep past the parlor, where Kathryn sat reclining after a trying day as the Mayor’s wife.  What with public appearances and visits to the spa to utterly drain her, she’d be in no mood to deal with whatever embarrassment Emma had caused to befall the family.  But the chill would only increase once darkness fell, so she quickened her pace, keeping her head down to shield her face.

The sun seemed to set more quickly the faster she walked, as if she’d unwittingly challenged it to a race.  The cold was beginning to reach her bones, and she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.  She heard cars pass on the road, saw the beams of their headlights as they turned the corner, and went from shielding her face from the wind to hiding it from potential witnesses.  Being recognized was the last thing she needed.  How would it look to Kathryn’s friends, or more importantly, the voting public, if she were caught trolling the streets at night like some penniless urchin?

Neighbors sipped coffee on their porches after long days at the office, but Emma didn’t look up at them, even as their voices quieted when she walked by—as if she were a spy sent to eavesdrop on their conversation and report back to her superiors that yes, Marcia was in fact the one stealing pens.

She jumped at the sound of angry horns nearby, and her eyes darted up to see two cars narrowly escape impact, though neither driver was content to let the other go without a piece of his mind.  That was when Emma realized she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.  The street was safe enough, she knew, but its memory threatened to pick at the past she’d so neatly packed away in the corners of her mind.

She turned to face the houses across the street, afraid to confront what lay behind her.  There was no denying that she wanted to look, wanted to see if it was still the same.  She wanted to see the aged but sturdy porch swing, whereupon she’d slept many a summer day away.  She wanted to see the flowers that dotted the bushes under the main window.  She wanted to see the walkway paved with stones that caught the toes of her shoes when she ran too fast.  More than any of these, she wanted to see _him_.  But what would he think if he saw her standing outside his house?

Nothing good.  The word _pathetic_ came to mind, and she shuddered.

_“Poor Emma.”_   She imagined him shaking his head.  _“Never could let go, could she?”_

Her feet were cemented to the sidewalk.  She ached to move, to turn around, to only glance at the bright red door one last time.  To say goodbye.  Goodbye to her childhood, goodbye to her favorite place in the world.  Goodbye to him.  She forced herself round, and her regret was instantaneous.  She shouldn’t have done it.  She should have walked away—walked straight into traffic if it meant escape—because as she turned toward the house that had been so intricately linked to everything she ever knew to be good, she saw him standing there, looking more handsome than any seventeen year old had the right to.

And he saw her.


	2. Chapter 2

“Emma?”

Her throat grew dry and her legs, which were previously unwilling to move, began to tremble.  He walked toward her, concern lacing his eyes as he pulled his jacket fully on.

“Hi, Killian.”

“What’re you doing here, Love?  Are you…lost?”

“Yeah,” Emma smiled with her best efforts to appear casual, “guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

The corners of his mouth curved the slightest bit, as if he were fighting against a smirk.  The action—not an action at all, but the threat of one—was enough to stir a strange sensation in the pit of Emma’s stomach.  She couldn’t understand why Killian would affect her in such a way, only…

He hadn’t looked like that the last time she’d seen him.  He hadn’t been so tall or lean, his face hadn’t been chiseled, his eyes quite so intense.  Had it really only been three months?

The silence reached unbearable heights as the two of them stared across the walkway at each other.  They both wanted the same thing—for Emma to make a quick getaway—but neither moved or spoke or dared to breathe too deeply that they might disturb the foundations of this new world order.

If someone would have told her a year ago that there would be a time when she and Killian had nothing to say to one another, she would’ve laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.  There was an age when this moment was the most absurd thing imaginable.  But there they were, locked in an unspoken battle of wills where neither side would concede defeat.

“Do you need a ride home?  I was just on my way out.”

He didn’t want to give her a ride home, but the gentleman his stepdad worked so hard to instill in him was imagining all the horrible things that could happen to a girl walking alone at night.  Even in Storybrooke.

“I’m fine.  It’s not that far.”

“It’s three miles, in the dark.”  He walked past her, to his car, and though it was brief—a millisecond, if that—Emma was assaulted by an intoxicating scent.  “It’s no trouble.”

Had he always smelled so good?  Or was nostalgia playing tricks on her senses?

She deliberated while he held the passenger door open.  There was no viable excuse for turning him down, and Emma cursed herself for not watching where she was walking.  With a sigh, she lowered herself into the vehicle that had only been partway to completion a few months ago.

As Killian walked around to his side, Emma watched his every move, wondering what happened to the boy who still had baby fat in his cheeks and innocence in his eyes.  She fought against the answering memory as the engine revved.

The ride was marked by silence, with Killian perfectly relaxed behind the wheel, as ever.  Emma was always the paranoid one, afraid they’d be caught making off with his stepdad’s car in the middle of the night in search of a 24-hour drive-thru.

He leaned back in his seat, one hand at the wheel while he hummed to himself a melody Emma had never heard.

“New song?”

Killian grinned, not taking his eyes off the road, and it was suddenly a few degrees warmer—on Emma’s side, if nowhere else.  She saw traces of the boy she once knew—the one who’d fallen out of a tree when they were nine, expecting it would somehow prove to his friends that he didn’t like her.  They were mixed with traces of the one whose priorities had taken him far away from her.

She shouldn’t have gotten in the car.  There was no escaping him here.

“So,” said Emma, taking in her surroundings, “this is it.”

“This is it.”

The black leather seats blended seamlessly with the rest of the interior.  The vintage stereo had been swapped for the latest tech but didn’t feel out of place.  An air freshener the shape of a pine tree hung from the rearview mirror, a can of partially emptied soda sat in the cup holder, its contents swishing with each turn, and to the left of the odometer was a photograph Emma could’ve gone the rest of her life without ever seeing.

“It’s nice.”

She could tell by looking at him that he wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained, saying simply, “Thanks.”

_“Cars,”_ the old Killian would’ve said, _“aren’t nice.”_   Especially cars like his, cars that were slaved over, cars that had the blood sweat and curses of men hardwired into them.

Emma could feel eyes on her, could hear the echo of laughter, shrill as it replayed in her memory, and she was unable to keep the past at bay.  It flooded her mind with cruel clarity, and she could no longer ignore the reason Killian didn’t need her anymore.  Head on Killian’s shoulder, arms snaked around his waist, she stared at Emma through that photograph with an expression that said, _“He’s mine.”_

“Skank.”

Killian looked at Emma, and it wasn’t until he did that she realized what’d slipped out of her mouth.  She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he wanted to smile.

“That wasn’t very ladylike, Miss Nolan.”  He definitely wanted to smile.

Emma stared straight ahead.  Killian and the rest of the guys had made it their goal in life to tease her for everything she did.  Or didn’t do.  During late night rehearsals in Killian’s garage, their language often turned foul, and Jefferson made snide remarks about the fact that Emma didn’t join in with anecdotes of her own.

_“Careful,”_ he’d say, _“wouldn’t want to offend Emma’s virgin ears.  What’s the matter, Princess, need me to draw you a diagram?”_

“I’m not going to apologize.”

“Good.”  His thumb beat an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel and his tone grew more detached by the second.  He was itching to have her out of his car and once again out of his life—when he’d become so smug about everything, Emma could only guess.  “So tell me, Love, how’re things at the mansion these days?”

“Fine.”

“Your dad ever get that import he wanted?”

“No.”

“I suppose they are rather expensive, aren’t they?”  He looked over with a smirk.  “Not that you’d have to worry about expense, what with those sizeable donations from Gold.  Speaking of—ever get that heated pool?”

“All monetary contributions go toward funding the campaign.”

“Very PC, Swan.”  His gaze faltered and he readjusted his grip on the wheel, apparently having forgotten for a brief second that the names they’d assigned to one another in their youngest years had no place in their new relationship—or lack thereof.  He cleared his throat, continuing on, “Ever think of following in Dave’s footsteps?  Make quite the politician.  Then again, the old crone’ll probably marry you off to one of those Ivy League mudslingers, won’t she?  Just think, one day you’ll be the spitting image of K—”

“Don’t say it.”

“It’s true—can hardly tell the two of you apart in those promos on the morning news.”

Emma didn’t say anything, didn’t trust her voice not to crack.  Of all the things he could’ve said, comparing her to Kathryn stung more than Emma thought possible.

“So, where were you coming from?  I didn’t think they allowed debutantes on this side of town.”

“Mercy General.”

“Got a clean bill of health, I hope.  Although, sympathy votes have proven instrumental in past campaigns, have they not?”

Emma watched him without speaking, knowing exactly what he was up to.  That cocksure tone of voice made it nearly impossible not to walk right into his trap.  He wanted to get a rise out of her, wanted her to yell at him, to tell him how deeply she despised his girlfriend.  He wanted to hear that Emma was jealous.

Apparently once hadn’t been enough.

“I was visiting my mom.”

The grin vanished from his face, and Emma felt more than a little guilty at having used Mary Margaret’s condition to verbally slap him serious.

“How is she?”

“The doctors say she doesn’t have long.”  Her hand, out of habit, traced figures along the surface of her jeans as she fought against the forming lump in her throat.  “But you know Leroy—refuses to believe any of it.”  She tried to make her smile convincing.  “‘ _Those quacks don’t know anything—just you watch, she’s going to outlive us all.’_ ”

Killian’s expression was the gravest she’d ever seen.  “I’m sorry, Emma.”

She’d spent three months waiting to hear those words from him.  But they weren’t right.  He wasn’t the sort of sorry he should’ve been.

“Are you okay?”

The words _“I’m fine,”_ began to form in automated response, but Emma couldn’t bear them.  They were like poison on her tongue.  She wasn’t fine.  In that car, she was bitter and abandoned and it was all his fault.

“Do you really care?”

“Of course I care.”

“Or is it formality?  Like driving me home so you can sleep better knowing you didn’t let me walk at night?”

Killian kept his face forward, his eyes focused on the road, but Emma read the tension in his jaw as silence overtook them once more.  It made her want to scream.  Didn’t he feel any remorse for leaving her?  Didn’t it affect him, not having her in his life?  He hadn’t even said goodbye.  All he’d said was, _“I can’t choose you.”_

“I’ll always care about you, Emma.”

She was wrong.  Of all the things he could’ve said, that simple, sincere statement stung more than Emma thought possible.

She turned away, her words escaping in a whisper, “Stop the car.”

“What?”

“Stop the car.”

Killian rolled his eyes, the threat of a smile tugging at his lips.  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I want to walk.”

“We’re a block away.”

“Then it’s safe.”  Emma snapped.  “Stop the fucking car.”

“Fine.”

Her body jerked forward, the seatbelt tightening against her chest as they came to a halt.  Her attempts at unbuckling herself were clumsy with haste, but she managed to free herself.  Eventually.  Slamming the door behind her, she stormed off toward her father’s estate.  The last thing she heard was the screeching of tires as Killian sped away.  To _her_.


	3. Chapter 3

_His hand grasped her arm and the next thing she knew, she was pressed up against the theatre’s outer wall; its texture scraped at the bare skin of her shoulders, but she didn’t care because Killian’s eyes were marked by an intensity that made her forget her name._

_His hand moved to the base of her neck.  “Don’t leave just yet.”_

_Emma swallowed thickly.  “Why?”_

_“There’s something I have to tell you.”_

_—_

_“So it’s her or it’s you?”_

_“She doesn’t love you.”_

_“Why the bloody hell do you care?”  Killian turned his gaze toward the crowd passing by, not even trying to pretend they weren’t watching the scene being made in the middle of a busy sidewalk.  “Why the sudden interest in who I date?”_

_“I…” the truth caught in her throat.  He was angrier than she’d ever seen him, and she doubted some heartfelt declaration would calm the storm raging behind his eyes.  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”_

_Killian scoffed.  “You’re too late, Love.”—_

“Mmm…” Emma grumbled at the intruder in her room.

If the alarm hadn’t woken her, the poking would have.  Or the incessant, _“Emma, hey Em, you awake?”_   She groaned, sinking further beneath the blankets.

“Hey,” a finger lodged itself in her ribcage, “time for school.”

What was with the morning people in that place?  Even on Saturdays, Ruby would draw the curtains and tell Emma in a sing-song voice that it was a beautiful day and she was a beautiful girl and the two should complement one another.  That only ever meant one thing: Get your lazy bones out of bed.  That day, however, it wasn’t Ruby wrenching Emma from haunted slumber.  It was—

“Regina?  Is that you?”

“The one and only.”

Emma threw back the covers, sitting up.  “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you, too.”  Regina smiled—partially at the tangled mop on Emma’s head, she was sure—before growing serious.  “I’ll choose not to take offense that you haven’t visited in two weeks.”

“And I’ll choose not to take offense that you absconded with my favorite shirt.”

Regina looked down at the sea-green blouse presently hugging her curves.  “So,” she flipped her hair over one shoulder and sat on the bed beside Emma, “all’s forgiven?”

“How long are you guys staying this time?  I assume Robin’s with you.”

“He is.”  Regina smiled the way she only did when referencing her husband.  “With David’s upcoming schedule, we may never leave.”

“Works for me.”  Emma’s excitement waned slightly as drowsiness sought her out and pulled a yawn from what felt like the depths of her soul.

“It’s almost seven and you’re not even showered—what time did you go to bed?”

“Um…”

What time had it been?  She remembered trudging up the front steps and slamming the door behind her—to the detriment of her plan to sneak past the parlor.

_Kathryn sat in her favorite high-backed chair, perusing the pages of a first edition, firelight illuminating the golden locks that outlined her face until it appeared that one of heaven’s choir had found her way to the Nolan Estate.  The truth was a bit more twisted._

_“Emma?  A word.”  She set her book on the side table.  “What took you so long?”_

_Back straight, hands at her sides, chin held at the appropriate angle, Emma responded with a practiced air of bored superiority.  “The hospital needed me to sign some forms.”_

_“Was that you I heard enter just now?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Kathryn never frowned.  Never smiled, never showed much emotion at all, but her expression changed minutely and in a manner not to be misinterpreted.  The set of her mouth bespoke the fury absent from her seemingly relaxed posture as her eyes bore into Emma’s._

_“Were you raised by wolves?”_

_“No.”_

_“No, what?”_

_“No, Ma’am.”_

_The muscles in her face looked like they were on the verge of spasm—it couldn’t possibly have been healthy to hold that expression for extended periods.  “Are you a toddler?”_

_“No, Ma’am.”_

_“Have you forgotten that your sister, not two weeks widowed, lay bedridden on the first floor?”_

Step _sister, Emma mentally corrected—and evil, to boot.  “No, Ma’am.”_

_She could almost hear Kathryn’s internal sigh.  “What excuse can you give for such petulant behavior?”_

_Emma’s hands curled into fists, her nails burrowing trenches in her flesh._

_Aside from being madly in love, Ruby was adamant that Emma’s parents had been happy—Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her dad smile.  She would never understand what drove him to choose Kathryn, and Mary Margaret wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details regarding their romance.  Whenever the subject was broached, a shadow seemed to cross her face, and Emma would apologize for bringing it up._

_She was surprised her mom had asked for the photograph from their senior year of high school.  Mary Margaret held the camera, grinning like a fool while David kissed her cheek.  That her mom wanted to keep it at her bedside couldn’t have been a good sign.  Emma skipped right past that thought._

_“I’m waiting.”_

_“No, I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.”_

_“That attitude will get you nowhere, Emma.”  Next to Kathryn’s book was a small, white teacup atop a matching saucer.  She reached for them, breaking eye contact, and Emma took the opportunity to breathe.  “Did you walk home?”_

_“Partway.”_

_Kathryn sipped her tea.  “Who gave you a ride?”_

_This was it.  The moment she couldn’t conceivably avoid, no matter her wish that the floor would open up and swallow her whole._

_“Killian.”_

_The pigment drained from Kathryn’s face; the hand holding her teacup paused in its path to her open mouth.  Setting it aside, she spoke with a voice that did little to mask her irritation.  “What have I told you about that boy?”_

_Over the years she’d told Emma many things about “that boy,” and none of them had been kind.  He was poor and therefore unworthy of Emma’s time and energy.  His biological father bailed when Killian was still a fetus.  And his musical aspirations were too ridiculous to even dissect—if Emma couldn’t see the utter waste of oxygen that was one Killian Jones, then she was beyond even Kathryn’s aid._

_“You told me to stay away from him.”_

_“And you disobeyed me.  You got into a moving vehicle with him.”  After an exaggerated huff, Kathryn stood.  “Boys like that, Emma, are like leeches—they feed off of wealthy young girls and bleed them dry.  God knows they’re trained to drink from infancy.  There’s only one thing he could possibly want from you, and it isn’t that,” she paused to give Emma a onceover, “_ figure _of yours.  I’m not to hear of you spending time with the Jones boy again.  Is that understood?”_

_Emma had no intention of spending time with “the Jones boy.”  But being commanded to stay away from him for the millionth time made her want to run back to his house, climb the terrace to his room, crawl through the window, and take up permanent residence in his bed just to spite her stepmother._

_“Is that understood?”_

_“Yes, Ma’am.”_

“I think it was around midnight sometime.”  She told Regina.  “Ana had another false alarm, and it kept everyone up.”

“Well, you’re going to be late.”

“Not if I don’t go…” Emma smiled.

“No.”  Regina shook her head.  “I am not writing you any more notes to get out of school.”

“Oh, come on,” Emma whined, “you used to do it all the time.  We can go see that movie you’ve been talking about—I won’t even fall asleep this time.”

“Emma,” her tone turned parental, “you’re going to school.”

“Grown-up.”

“Yeah, yeah.  What time is Killian picking you up?”

“He isn’t.”

“What?  Why not?”

It would be so much easier to stop thinking about him if people could go five minutes without bringing him up.  But Emma supposed she couldn’t keep it a secret much longer—not from Regina.

“He’d probably rather take his _girlfriend_.”  She didn’t try to hide the edge in her voice, practically spitting the last word.

“Girlfriend?  When did this happen?”

“A while ago.  Haven’t you noticed he hasn’t been around?”

“Emma, I’m so sorry.”

Emma frowned.  “Why’re you sorry?”

“I don’t know, I just…always thought you sort of liked him.”

Emma laughed a little too hard, and hoped Regina didn’t notice the tint in her cheeks.  “Like Killian?”  The snort may have been overkill.

“So he’s just your friend?”

“No.”

“No?”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Then what is he?”

“He isn’t anything.”

“Emma, you’ve got to give me something.”

She was well aware of the angry scowl furrowing her brow as she looked upon the carpet with contempt, but she’d experienced far too many trips down Memory Lane in the past twelve hours to be anything but annoyed.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

By her expression, Regina was more than a little confused, but she wouldn’t push.  She sat silently fidgeting with the jumbled down-comforter on Emma’s bed.

Emma sighed.  “It’s so stupid.”  Anticipation flashed in Regina’s eyes, straightened her posture.  “You know how we all went to Prom as sort of a group—the guys and their dates, and Killian and me?”

“Mhm.”

“I never told you this, but at one point, Killian took me aside and we had this…moment.”

Regina smiled.  “What kind of moment?”

“He said there was something he needed to tell me, and it was dark and there were stars, and our faces were practically touching—”

“Did he kiss you?”

“Well, no.  But that’s not the point.  It seemed like it was important, and I was hoping—” She shook her head, deciding against what she’d been about to say.  What she could barely admit to herself during the quiet hours of the night.  “I don’t know what I was hoping.”

“So what happened?”

“We got interrupted before he could tell me.  And he took me home, walked me to my front door—the perfect gentleman all night.”

“And then he kissed you.”

“No.”

“Just tell me—does this story have a kiss or not?”

“Not everything’s about kissing.”

“All you had to say was _no_.”

Emma glared at her.

“So then what?”

“Then…nothing.”  Emma’s shoulders slumped.  “Okay, not nothing—something.  Some _one_.”

“The girlfriend.”

“Suddenly they were together all the time.  And they were always so…all over each other.”  A shudder passed through Emma’s body at the images her description conjured.  “Even Will could hardly stomach being near them, and you know how he is about stuff like that.”

“So…?”

A soft sigh tried to relieve the tension in Emma’s chest, but the bitter knot wouldn’t be so easily vanquished.  “He didn’t need me anymore.”  After a moment’s self-pity, Emma turned up her chin.  “So I let him go.”

While that wasn’t the whole story, it would satisfy Regina’s curiosity for now.

“What about the others—Jefferson, Will, Neal?”

Emma shrugged.  “Guess we weren’t as close as I thought.”

 

—

 

The car slowed to a smooth stop, but Emma didn’t get out.  To say she was disinclined to leave the safety of its interior for the overcrowded halls of Storybrooke High would’ve been an understatement.

“Is that her?”  Asked Regina.

The two of them walked hand-in-hand across the quad, taking turns whispering in each other’s ear.  Killian left a peck on his girlfriend’s neck and she stopped in her tracks, pulling him in for a deeper, more sensuous display that turned Emma’s already queasy stomach.

“Doesn’t look like they’re holding tightly to their…uh…virtue.”

“Regina!”

“What?  It was just an observation.”

Emma’s head fell back against the seat, her eyes clamping shut at the unwelcome visual.  “That’s not something I want to think about.  Ever.”

Wasn’t it bad enough that she had a front row seat to their foreplay every morning?

“Hm…”

Emma knew that tone.  That _you-are-so-not-fooling-anyone-so-quit-trying_ tone.

“But you don’t like him, right?”

Emma’s gaze drifted to the far end of the quad, where she saw them disappear amidst a crowd of their peers.

Her mind had the worst timing, and a habit of bringing up things that didn’t matter.  It chose that moment to remind her of two souls barely thirteen, seated beneath the November moon.

_Emma’s cheeks burned hot despite the unseasonable cold, and she hid them in her hands while Killian waited silently at her side._

_“He’s a liar.”  She said.  “I’ve never kissed anyone.”_

_Her words broke upon the night, and she wished she could recapture them.  More than this, she wished she could bludgeon Neal Cassidy to within an inch of his miserable, self-serving life for setting in motion the events that’d forced her confession.  If he hadn’t caused a scene in front of Killian’s cousins, Emma never would’ve run from the den, mortified, Killian never would’ve followed her, and he never would’ve known the extent of her inexperience.  But these things had happened.  Neal had mauled her in the stairwell on her way back from the bathroom, and when she rejected him, he announced in front of everyone that he would never go out with her because she was a bad kisser—at which they all laughed and pointed their cruel fingers until Emma turned a deep, devastating crimson._

_“Why are you friends with him?”  She chanced a look at the boy seated next to her on the back porch._

_“He isn’t always like that.”_

_“He is with me.”_

_“Yeah, only you.”_

_“Wow, I feel so special.”  Emma rolled her eyes._

_“You don’t understand.”_

_“What’s to understand?”_

_“He…” Killian scratched behind his ear, shyly smiling, “…he and Jefferson…and Will think that I…like you.  So you see, it’s not really about you.”_

_Emma’s heart picked up speed, stealing the strength from her voice.  “Do you…like me?”_

_He didn’t answer with words.  He gazed at her until she was certain she’d get lost in the fathoms of his eyes.  Then he leaned forward.  Emma’s instincts told her to ignore the butterflies in her stomach and follow his lead._

_The kiss lasted only moments—they had to be moments, that brief and fleeting measure of perfect time—before he pulled away._

_But by that time, she’d already surrendered a part of herself she’d never get back._

“Maybe I did.  Once.”


	4. Chapter 4

Even in black-and-white he was beautiful.  Emma didn’t know how she hadn’t realized sooner, but he’d always been devastatingly handsome.  The eyes staring back at her were kind, emanating genuine affection, and his smile was possibly the most perfect thing ever captured on film.  Maybe she was biased by how badly she missed him, but there was no denying now what she’d somehow overlooked all this time.

“Hey.”

Emma jumped, dropping the tongs into the developer.  “Neal!”  She reached into the liquid to retrieve the instrument, but she was too late.  “I scratched it.”

“Is it my fault you’re easily startled?”

Emma frowned, looking over the freshly scarred photograph, where a white line now ran across Killian’s face.  “Now I have to redo the whole thing.”

She let it fall to the bottom of the trashcan, struck by the way art, in that instant, seemed to imitate life.

Neal leaned against the counter, smirking.  “You know Jones has a girlfriend.”

“What do you want?”  She moved to the enlarger, removing a second sheet of light-sensitive paper from its black plastic sleeve and centering it on the easel.  When Neal didn’t say anything, she looked over to see his smile widen.  “What?”

He let his eyes roam every point on her face, and down her neck, lingering on her chest before continuing on—she could practically feel the trail they left behind.  He was probably hoping his roving gaze would make her go weak in the knees, the way it did when they were together.

“Nothing.”

Emma set the timer for a ten-second exposure.  “Did you just come here to gawk at me?”

“Maybe a little.”  He waited for her to finish and followed her return to the chemicals.  “What are your plans for this weekend?”

“Nothing that involves you.”

“My dad’s going out of town on Friday.”

“Good for him.”  Emma continued with her assignment, trying to pretend Neal wasn’t there.  It didn’t work.  “I thought you weren’t supposed to consort with the enemy.”

“What Jones doesn’t know won’t hurt him.  And besides,” he smiled, “makes it that much more intriguing, doesn’t it?  Knowing it’s forbidden?”

“Whatever gets you through the day.”  Emma rolled her eyes.

“You know you miss me.”

“Like a hemorrhoid misses salt.”

“Jones would never have to know.”

“What makes you think I care what he knows?”

“ _‘Tell Killian about us and you’re a dead man, Neal, I mean it.’_   Sound familiar?"

How was it that even the briefest flashes into the past had the ability to make her cringe?  How had she ever fallen for his flattery?  It was nearly a year ago, and yet she felt pity for her younger self, so naïve, so easily swayed by flowery phrases and lustful stares.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that I’ve forgotten.”  He brushed the backs of his fingers across her arm, and she recoiled.  “Remember that time in Jones’ garage, just before practice?”

Emma didn’t answer.  She wished she could forget.  If Will hadn’t walked in when he did, there was no telling what she might’ve agreed to.  Yet another reason she would forever thank the heavens for the wonder that was Will Scarlet.

“Still trying to pretend you’re not interested?”  The first traces of shadow appeared on the page, and Neal laughed to himself.  “Or are you still holding out for that ever elusive _True Love_?”

“I’m not playing games, Neal.”

“Aren’t you?  Isn’t crying hard-to-get some little game all girls play to make the male population salivate?”

“I wouldn’t do that.  I said it was over and I meant it.”

He looked at her the way Ana did when she thought Emma was being exceptionally gullible.  It was an expression marked by a frown and followed by phrases like, _“Poor Emma.  If only you knew what you don’t know.”_

“Don’t worry, Princess, one day you’ll get gotten.”  Neal’s hand helped itself to her chin, turning her face toward him.  “I, for one, would be happy to oblige, as you well know.”

Emma shoved him back.  “I’d rather swallow glass.”

Her assignment passed through the final stages of development and she left it to rinse.  Neal followed her through the hanging black tarp that separated the darkroom from the classroom.  Once her eyes adjusted to the light, she grabbed her bag from the pile by the door and waited for the bell to dismiss them.

“Anytime you change your mind,” said Neal, standing so close Emma felt his breath on the back of her neck, “you have my number.”

“Hold your breath—let me know how that one works out for you.”

 

—

 

Mercy General Hospital was a few short blocks from Storybrooke High, which had proven convenient for students who’d sustained injuries on campus.  In the months since Mary Margaret’s diagnosis, Emma’s dad had learned not to expect her home for dinner.  Kathryn had made no secret of her displeasure at the idea, but Emma had decided long ago that nothing she would ever do would please that woman.  So she stopped trying.

As she neared Mary Margaret’s room, her pace slowed at the sound of a familiar voice from inside.  A familiar accented voice.  She waited at the threshold with bated breath.

“It’s so wonderful to see you,” said Mary Margaret.  “Will you come again?”

“I’ll come until you’re sick of me.  Even then, they’ll have to throw me out.”

Emma’s heart ached at the sound of her mom’s laugh, lighter and more carefree than Emma had heard in…

She didn’t know how long.

Before Emma could hide the fact that she’d been eavesdropping, she and Killian were face-to-face.  Their eyes locked on each other’s, but neither of them spoke.  His stare was made up of pure vitriol, and Emma’s heart threatened to break a second time.  Then he pushed past her, down the hallway, and out of sight.

Emma took a deep breath to steady her nerves before she entered her mom’s room.

Her face beaming with a bright smile, she looked over at Emma’s approach.  “You came.”

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but her skin didn’t appear as pale today, her movements quite so strained.

“Of course.”  Emma tried to smile back, still a bit shaken.  “I said I would.”

“Did you see Killian?  Isn’t he so sweet?  He said he’s been thinking of me—look what he brought.”

She pointed to a large vase on the windowsill that was overflowing with a bright array of fake flowers, the only touch of color in the room.

“He wasn’t sure if real ones were allowed, but I think they’re just lovely.  Finally, a plant I can’t kill.”  Her mom laughed.

Emma wanted to believe the best in Killian, wanted to see only kindness in his gesture, but what happened when his priorities changed?  What happened when her mom got used to seeing him and his girlfriend decided she didn’t approve of his visits?

“That was…nice of him.”  Emma managed to say, despite the desire to throw the gift back in his face.

“He’s such a sweet boy.”

She dropped her backpack beside her usual chair.  “Mom, would you excuse me just a minute?”

“Okay…”

Emma followed the path of Killian’s departure, finding him in the lobby by the bank of elevators.  He pressed the triangular button pointing down, only looking over when Emma was practically on top of him.

“Emma,” he said, smiling a fake smile, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Cut the bullshit, Killian.  What do you think you’re doing?”

“I think I’m waiting for an elevator.”

“With my mom—what do you think you’re doing with my mom?”  Emma couldn’t keep her voice from rising in volume, and she hated him for having that effect on her.  “You know she may not have much time left.  The last thing she needs are false promises from people pretending to care about her.”

“Pretending to care.”  Killian scoffed.  “Okay, Emma.  You’re right and all the world is wrong.  We’ve all got hidden agendas and secret schemes and are out to ruin the lives of everyone you’ve ever loved.  Is that what you want to hear?”

“Go to hell.”

The elevator dinged, its doors opening to reveal the last person on Earth Emma expected to see.

“Dad.  What are you doing here?”

He looked back and forth, from Emma to Killian, caught off guard.  Then he pasted on a practiced smile.  “I’m here to pick you up.  I heard you walked home yesterday.”  He nodded his acknowledgement to the boy beside her.  “Killian.”

“Dave.”

Emma’s dad smiled—never could convince Killian to call him _Mr. Nolan_ , even as a kid.  Not that he minded all that much.

“I can’t leave,” said Emma.  “I just got here.”

“Oh.  Uh, in that case, I guess I’ll go in with you.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure.  Why not?  Think your mom will mind?”

Emma didn’t know how to answer.  On the one hand, maybe her parents being in the same room would force some sort of clue to slip out about their past.  On the other, the last time they’d spent an extended period of time together without throwing something had probably been sometime before Emma was born.

Taking a page from her dad’s political playbook, she forced a smile.  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

If _fine_ meant disastrous.

“That sounds like my cue,” said Killian, trading places with David.  “Goodbye, Emma.  See you around, Dave.”

He leaned against the elevator’s back wall, his posture casual, everything about him relaxed except his eyes, which zeroed in on Emma, unmoved from their mark until the doors closed.

Why when he’d said _goodbye_ had it felt so final?  Not simply goodbye for now, but goodbye forever?  Why did she suddenly find it so difficult to breathe?

“Shall we?”  Her dad held out his arm and Emma linked it with hers.

 

—

 

For the next week, Emma’s schedule went much the same way.  School, hospital, forced civility with former best friend, and back home.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Her dad hadn’t been back to see her mom since that first day, claiming prior commitments he simply couldn’t get out of.  But it was okay.  Emma was still reeling from the last visit.

Except for a minor incident where Mary Margaret asked, _“Did you and Killian make up?”_ and Emma would’ve sworn she’d heard _make out_ , everything went surprisingly well.  It was surreal, watching her parents interact like long lost friends.  Every so often, she’d catch their eyes drifting toward the photograph on the bedside table, each of them coming away with shy smiles.

_“I hear you’re going to be a grandfather,” said Mary Margaret._

Step _-grandfather, Emma corrected in her mind._

_“How far along is Ana?”_

_“She’s coming up on the end pretty quick,” said David._

_“Does she know what she’s having?”_

_“Boy.”_

_“A little boy.”  Mary Margaret smiled.  “That’s wonderful.  Children are such blessings.”_

_“They’re okay, I guess.”  David put his arm around Emma, smiling._

On the car ride home, Emma had tried asking her dad what’d happened seventeen years ago, seeing as her mom refused to talk about it.  But he was just as tight-lipped as she was.

_“It’s…complicated.”_

_“So’s Calculus, but I’m managing,” said Emma._

_Her dad grinned, but said nothing further._

The waiting room was empty save for one other person.  He sat sifting through a magazine from what looked like the 1990s, given the excess of boybands on the cover.  Refusing to let his presence unnerve her, Emma took the seat directly beside him and picked out a magazine of her own.

“You’re here early.”  He said.  “Still waiting for me to break my promise?”

“Not everything is about you.”  Sensing his smirk, Emma turned toward him.  “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what I’m thinking.”

“You think I don’t?”  A challenge was written all over his face, and that infernal brow called her a fool for believing there existed such a thing as a secret between them.

She employed her magazine as a shield from his all-knowing eyes and pretended to immerse herself in antiquated pop culture.  “I’m not in the mood for your games today, Killian.”

“Is that supposed to shock me?”

“Ugh, you’re such a child.”

At this, he leaned in close so that his voice, made gruff by playing shows at smoke-filled bars since he was fourteen, was heard only by Emma.  “That may be true, Love.  But at least I know a thing or two about loyalty.”

“Loyalty?”  Emma faced him, taken aback by his increased proximity.  Swallowing thickly, and unable to keep her gaze from wandering to his parted lips, she said more breathlessly than she would’ve liked, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”  He turned away.

“Killian.”

“Nothing, Emma.  Let it go.”

“I won’t let it go.  You’ve been nothing but passive aggressive toward me all week and I’m sick of it.”

Killian grinned without humor.  “You’re right.  How inconsiderate of me.  I apologize.”

“When did you become such an ass?”

“Truth hurts, darling.  I can’t help it if you’re only seeing it now.”

“The truth.”  Emma scoffed.  “Right.  And you would know so much about _that_.”

He leaned across the armrest, invading her space.  “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you.  Go on.  Ask me why we’re no longer friends.”

Emma opened her mouth, but no words came.

“Precisely as I thought.  But keep telling yourself I’m the reason everything turned to shit.”  Lowering his voice, he moved closer still.  “Truth is you’re afraid.”

“Of what?”

“You tell me.”

The space between them was practically non-existent, and the temptation to close it completely was overwhelming.  Emma was transported back to a dozen different points in time, wherein her inclination had been the same as it was in that moment.  To the night of Prom, the two of them covered by a blanket of stars, his softly spoken words stirring the embers deep in her chest that’d first been ignited in a darkened hallway one Christmas Eve.

_“It_ is _tradition,” he said with a crooked grin._

_Emma smiled, surprised she was capable of that much, what with the swam his suggestion had awakened in her stomach.  “I hear it’s bad luck to break tradition.”_

_“That it is, Swan.”_

_His hand moved to the small of her back, pulling her forward until their bodies were flush.  Her breath caught in her throat as he looked down at her, as his fingertips, callused from a life of playing guitar, explored a patch of freshly exposed skin.  Her gaze fell to his mouth and she leaned into him, granted him permission to touch her, to taste her, devour her if he wished, and he—_

_“There you two ar—Killian Jones,_ what _do you think you’re doing?”_

_They pulled apart, their eyes meeting for a moment so brief, Emma could hardly remember if it’d really happened or if she’d imagined the smoldering stare burning through her.  Killian untangled himself as his mom drew nearer._

_“Leave poor Emma alone,” she said._

_“I didn’t hear her complaining.”_

_“Maybe you would if you gave the poor girl room to breathe.  Now say you’re sorry.”_

_Killian looked at Emma, trying not to smile.  “Sorry, Love.”_

_His mom dragged him down the hallway and back to the festivities, Killian asking along the way why she hung mistletoe if she was so averse to people kissing.  Later that night, he’d walked past Emma’s seat at the dinner table and whispered, “I’m not sorry.”_

He looked at her now like he could see into her soul, like he knew it better than she did.

And maybe he was right.

Because she was so much more than afraid.  She was fucking terrified.

Before she could gather her wits, Killian turned from her again, holding the magazine in front of his face.  “Or better yet, why don’t you go talk it over with Cassidy?  Seems you two are rather adept at keeping each other’s secrets.”

“Wh-what?”

“Didn’t think anyone knew about that, did you?”  He turned a page, and another, not looking at her.

_Shit._

“Killian—”

“Miss Nolan?”  She looked up to see a man in navy blue scrubs cutting his glance between the two of them.  When he’d arrived, Emma couldn’t guess.  “We’re all finished running your mom’s tests, if you wanted to go in.”

“It’s about bloody time.”

Killian was on his feet in an instant and halfway to her mom’s room by the time Emma caught up with him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long-hopefully the next update will come sooner. Thanks for all the love in the comments-you guys are seriously too sweet. I feel like a simple 'thank you' isn't enough. I know there seem to be more questions than answers with each chapter, but I promise everything will make sense by the end :)

Will Scarlet was a dead man.  Emma was going to kill him.  Or have him deported for the tea swilling traitor he was.  She hadn’t decided yet.

_“Your secret’s safe with me.”  He said, avoiding Emma’s eyes and avoiding Neal outright.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go scrub this moment from my mind.”_

She should’ve known better.  Should’ve known his word would expire the second she and Killian severed ties.

_Loyalty, my ass._

What did any of them know about anything?  They were rotten, wretched boys, out for their own ends.  How long had it taken them to solidify their alliance after the _S.S. Captain Swan_ shattered upon the rocks?

Mary Margaret and Regina weren’t the only ones convinced that Killian and Emma were more than childhood friends, and that one day their mutual denial would run out.  The guys had taken bets on when this shift would occur—the pot, as it now stood, could put some trust funds to shame.  Not only this, but they’d _named_ them, like fictional characters on a TV show.  _Swan_ was the nickname Killian had given her when they were kids, after watching _The Swan Princess_ and deciding Emma bore a striking resemblance to Odette.

_Captain_ was a nickname Killian had brought with him from England, back when he and his family only spent summers in Storybrooke and the rest of the year abroad.  The opposite became standard the year Killian turned eleven, but now it seemed he only ever returned to the land of his birth when visiting his brother, Liam, whose relationship with their mother was strained, to say the least.  She didn’t approve of his compulsion to find his and Killian’s biological father, and swore her son was only setting himself up for heartbreak.  But Liam didn’t care.  He’d packed his bags and left, promising that the day Killian turned eighteen, there’d be a place for him back home.

The moniker may or may not have had something to do with a pirate obsession Killian had as a kid, Emma couldn’t be sure.

Either way, she was done.  She washed her hands of them, here and now.  Who needed friends, anyway?  She was better off alone.

If only she didn’t miss them so much.

“You kids are awfully quiet today.”  Mary Margaret turned first to Killian, positioned at the window, his hands on the sill, legs crossed at the ankles, and then to Emma, seated by her bed.  “Long day at school?”

Emma looked up from her book, realizing she hadn’t read a single word, her thoughts having turned the prose into blurred splotches on the page.  “Something like that.”

Even that infernal tale bore a connection to the boy she was henceforth determined to ignore.  She couldn’t make it through a single chapter without his voice taking over for Mr. Darcy.

_“Please?”  She looked up at him with her best impression of puppy dog eyes, even though she really didn’t think they should be necessary.  Had he no pity for her swollen nose and puffy eyes?  Or the horrible scratch in her throat that made her sound like a fairytale hag, out to lure unsuspecting maidens to their doom?  “It’s better with an accent—and it really isn’t fair for you to hold out.  You were born to read Austen.  And Shakespeare.  And—”_

_“Bloody hell, Swan.  You win.”  He plopped down beside her on the bed, plucking the paperback from her hands.  Emma smiled, trying not to laugh, lest he think her the slightest bit recovered.  “But if you infect me with your pestilence again, it’ll be the last time.  And don’t think we’re watching the movie.”_

“Hm…” Mary Margaret studied them in turn, mischief brewing behind her eyes.  “So, Killian, Emma tells me you have a girlfriend.”

“Mom.”

“Does she?”  His smirk was audible, if that was possible.

“I hope she’s a nice girl,” said Mary Margaret.

Emma snorted before she could stop herself, earning a scowl from Killian, who said, “Aye.  That she is.”

“You know, I’d hate for you to end up with the wrong person.”

Emma’s entire life, she’d never understood why so many of her peers were embarrassed by their parents.  When they gave her strange looks, she’d shrug and say, _“My mom’s pretty cool.”_   And she was.  She’d never given Emma a reason to want to crawl inside a hole in the ground just to escape the moment—until now.

“Didn’t you and Emma get married in the second grade?”

Killian laughed.  “Nearly forgot about that.”

“ _‘Just practice,’_ you’d said.”  Mary Margaret smiled.  “ _‘We’ll have a proper ceremony when we’re older.’_ ”

“You said that?”

So much for ignoring him.

Killian looked at Emma for the first time in an hour, and for a brief, bittersweet moment, his eyes were absent of hostility.  In its place was something more akin to panic.

“Right,” he said, “well, I should be going.”

“So soon?”  Said Mary Margaret.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Okay, hon—hug your mom for me.”

“I will.”

“And Westley, give him my love.”

“Consider it done.”

With a final tight-lipped smile, Killian was gone.

When Emma felt he was safely out of earshot, she turned on her mom.  “What the hell was that?”

“What?”  Mary Margaret played innocent.

“You know what.”

“Oh, honey.  These petty squabbles between you two, they just don’t matter.  You should tell him how you feel.”

“And how is that?”

In true Killian Jones fashion, Mary Margaret arched her brow in a manner that asked, _“Do I really need to spell it out for you?”_

Emma frowned.

“You’re my daughter, Emma.  I don’t want you to get to the end of your life and be left with nothing but regret.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—I don’t _feel_ anything.”

“Are you really going to lie to your mother on her deathbed?”

Emma’s throat constricted; her eyes stung with tears as she whispered, “Mom?”

“Oh, honey,” Mary Margaret’s face flushed with the realization of what she’d said, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean it.”

She held out her arms, and Emma hugged her like she was a little girl again, scared of being alone in the dark.  Mary Margaret stroked her hair, whispering in her ear that everything was going to be okay.  She had a lot of life to live before she was done.

 

—

 

_This is ridiculous._

She was going to do it.  She was going to tell him.

Tell him what, exactly, she didn’t know—she was hoping that part would sort itself out when she got there.

It was still light out, and in contrast to a week prior, when the sun couldn’t seem to set fast enough, it remained suspended at the perfect angle to cast long shadows between the houses on his street.  Just perfect.  Wouldn’t want a pesky thing like cover of night to hide behind when she bared her soul.

_“Promise me you’ll tell him.”  Mary Margaret squeezed Emma’s hand while she used the opposite sleeve to dry her cheeks._

_“Mom, I can’t.”  She shook her head as the very idea of what Mary Margaret was suggesting caused another surge of emotion.  “He wouldn’t—he…doesn’t…”_

_“Emma, look at me.”_

_Emma stared at their joined hands, where their fingers had interlaced.  She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look her mom in the eye again without hearing the word_ deathbed _.  Her breath hitched, and silent tears fell without restraint._

_“Emma…”_

_Slowly, reluctantly, her gaze drifted to Mary Margaret, who waited with a smile—the one thing her condition couldn’t take from her.  It was as unguarded as ever, bright with the hope to which she’d clung most of her life.  It was this hope, more than the fables she read as a child, more than the Disney animations that first filled her young mind with fantasy, that made Emma believe in happily ever after.  She knew she wouldn’t survive without it.  Without_ her _._

_“Do you think I would encourage you to put yourself out there if I wasn’t_ positive _he felt the same?”_

_Emma’s heart nearly came to a full stop.  Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping.  The very idea that Killian could…_

_That he…_

_It was absurd.  Nonsensical._

_“Mom, I know you mean well, but…”_

_In that moment, as her manifold excuses died on her tongue, the past came to torment her.  To disabuse her of the belief she’d harbored for so long.  That she couldn’t possibly matter to him the way he mattered to her._

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You’re too late, Love.”

_He couldn’t have meant…_

_Something like that wouldn’t_ hurt _him.  Would it?_

“Or better yet, why don’t you go talk it over with Cassidy?”

_“But?”_

_Emma’s vision cleared and she looked to her mom, at a loss for words.  Where did she even start?_

Hey, Killian.  How’s it going?  So, I’ve been thinking about all the times we’ve almost made out, and we should probably have a discussion about what that means.

_It wasn’t exactly normal, the way they melted into each other’s arms the minute they were alone.  Before he found someone else to fondle, that is._

_Emma chewed her bottom lip, deliberating.  Deciding on a suitable compromise, she said, “I’ll tell Killian if you talk to Dad._ Really _talk to him.”_

_Mary Margaret went to protest._

_“And don’t tell me there’s nothing to say—I saw the two of you together.  Mom, you were practically giddy.  What was that you were saying about regret?”_

_Mary Margaret sighed, seeking distraction amidst the sheets on her bed.  “Honey, things between your father and me are—”_

_“Complicated?”_

_“Well, yes.”_

_“And things between me and Killian aren’t?  Why, because we’re seventeen?  Remind me again how old you were when you had me.”_

_Emma knew by her mom’s expression that she’d won._

Only problem was, now she had to hold up her end of the bargain.

The nerves didn’t fully settle in until she was a block away, but now grew steadily with every forward step.  When she reached the walkway outside his house, she thought she might throw up.  She waited, staring ahead at the red door, like a stalker.  She wasn’t sure she took a single breath between the time she knocked and the time the door began to open.

Maybe a kiss would get her point across better than words.  Just lay one on him, and either he’d be into it…or he wouldn’t

Maybe she’d know when she saw him.

Then again, his eyes had the unfortunate habit of rendering her speechless, and her mouth was running dry as it was.

A door had never opened at such a torturously slow pace since the invention of the hinge—did it have no pity for Emma’s emotional state?  This was the point of no return.  There were three options, three ways this conversation would end: They’d walk away friends, enemies, or—

Her stomach did a nervous flip as the word _lovers_ raced across her mind.

_Fuck._

There was no turning back.  This was it.  If nothing else, the truth would finally be out there, and all the awkward subtext between them could end.

_Sunlight fell across the t-shirt displaying Killian’s favorite band, the t-shirt Emma had given him as a gift,_ “Just because.” _But the chest it hugged wasn’t Killian’s.  She stood in the doorway with every appearance of having been recently and thoroughly ravaged.  Nothing covered her lower half, lipstick was smeared across her face, and her hair was a tangled mess._

_“The_ hell _do_ you _want?”  She braced herself, ready to pounce on Emma, though Emma couldn’t recall having done anything to warrant such a violent reaction._

_“I…”_

_The door opened wider as Killian walked up behind his girlfriend, in a comparable state of disarray, wearing only jeans, and barely even that.  If they hung any lower on his hips, there’d be nothing left to the imagination.  “I said I’d—Emma.”_

_“I’m sorry,” she said, backing away.  “I’m so sorry.”_

_She followed the path that’d led her there and let the sun’s descent guide her home._

She blinked away the past, come to rattle her.  If her memories could make up their minds about whether she was being brave or an incomparable idiot, it would go a long way toward preserving her sanity.  Not to mention, her lunch.

“Emma.”

Killian answered, fully clothed, which made it easier for Emma to breathe.  He looked over his shoulder, pulling the door as far closed as he could with his body wedged between it and the frame.  From somewhere inside his house came sounds of cursing and breaking glass.

“Now isn’t the best time.  Would it be all right if we talked later?”

“Of course.”  Emma took a step back.  “I shouldn’t have just shown up like this—”

The door opened fully, catching not only Emma but Killian by surprise.  At his side, having every appearance of being on a murderous rampage, stood his girlfriend.  She looked at Emma and laughed.

“Well, that’s convenient.”  Turning to Killian, she said, “Did you call her?”

“No, I didn’t bloody call her.”

“You know what, Killian?  Have a nice fucking life—I hope you fall off a fucking cliff.”

She pushed past Emma—literally—stomping down the steps.  With a slam of the driver door to her car, the engine roared to life, and the bane of Emma’s existence sped away.

“You weren’t kidding.”

“Sorry you had to see that.”  Killian scratched behind his ear before gesturing at the foyer behind him.  “Care to come in?”

“I can’t stay.  I just came to…tell you…something.”

“I’m all ears.”  Something was off about his tone—it wasn’t derisive, wasn’t sarcastic, wasn’t laced with unbridled irritation for her very presence on his porch.  He sounded like himself again.  “Emma?”

“I…”

She couldn’t do it.  She couldn’t tell him.  What was she thinking?  That she’d make some grand declaration and he’d take her in his arms, like some romantic comedy, and they’d live happily ever after?  At seventeen?  Her parents were the same age when everything fell apart.  And in their case, there wasn’t any question as to the reciprocal nature of their affections.

All Emma had was conjecture.

“I just came to say I’m sorry.  For…everything.”

Killian smiled the most genuine smile Emma had seen from him in months.  “As am I, Love.  What I said today, at the hospital—I apologize.  You don’t deserve that.”

“Forget it.”

They stood there silently staring for what felt like minutes but could’ve very well been a lifetime.  The truth weighed heavily on Emma’s heart and she longed to set it free, but every time she opened her mouth, she was reminded of the tragedy that was her parents’ love affair.

When she was a child, all they did was scream at one another.  Her mother, whom Emma was certain hadn’t sworn a day in her life before meeting David Nolan, unleashed obscenities the likes of which would’ve made a ship full of sailors blush.

“Are you sure you won’t come in?”

“I have to get home.”  Emma tried to smile, tried to ignore the voice in the back of her mind calling her a coward.  “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Swan.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, guys-thank you so much for reading, and for the wonderful comments. They really do mean the world.

She remembered not to slam the door, and honestly, she didn’t think she had the strength.  She was mentally exhausted from going back and forth about whether she’d made a mistake or avoided one, and the strain was beginning to manifest itself on a physical level.

Latching the door softly behind her, she made a path for the stairs, deciding that the only way to escape her cowardice was to get lost in a deep, dreamless sleep.  But raised voices stopped her before the first step was cleared, and she followed them down the hallway, to her father’s study.  The doors were cracked the slightest bit and Emma peeked inside, like she used to do when she was much younger.

She’d pretend she was a spy listening in on the exchange of covert intelligence.  Then she’d run upstairs to her room and radio HQ to apprise her superiors of the enemy’s next move.  Killian’s voice was hard to distinguish amidst the crackle of static interference as they tested the limitations of the walkie-talkies Robin had given them (a secret from Kathryn, naturally—or as they called her at that time, “The murderer of fun”).  But Emma was sure his response was something along the lines of, _“Good work, Agent.  Prepare for extraction.”_

“She won’t go along with it—nor should she.”  Robin sat opposite David at his desk.  “I thought this sort of medieval practice died out centuries ago.”

“She’ll come around.”  Said Kathryn, who circled their conversation like a vulture on the hunt.  “This town was built upon _medieval practices_ , as you call them.  One day she’ll thank us for being so vigilant.”

Robin scoffed, mumbling to himself, “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”  To David he said, “Surely you understand why I won’t be party to this.”

Emma’s dad was quiet, his face creased with conflict as he rolled a ballpoint pen back and forth across his desk.

“David understands what’s at stake.”  Kathryn said on his behalf.  “And he’s prepared to do what’s necessary to ensure this family’s survival.”

“You act as though we’re at war.”  Said Robin.

“What do you think politics are?”

Robin grinned but there was more irritation in the action than humor.  “Make your deal with the devil, but leave me out of it.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”  Kathryn paused to look him over, something wicked in the curve of her mouth.  “How is Regina these days?  Well, I hope.”

Robin’s jaw clenched, his hand, rested atop his knee, followed suit.  “Yes, thank you,” he said in a tight voice.

“That is good news, isn’t it, David?  I would hate to hear that, for some reason or other, her treatments didn’t take.  But you know, these things _do_ happen.”

Robin abandoned even the pretense of being polite as he shot to his feet.  “Just what the hell are you insinuating?”

“ _Insinuating_?  Can’t I express concern for my nephew and his wife?”

“If you mean to _threaten—_ ”

“Honestly, Robin, what do you take me for?  To suggest that I desire anything less than your well-being, why, it’s insulting.”  She pretended to wipe a tear from her eye.  “It’s only _natural_ to be anxious about something as important as bringing a child into the world—I’ve said as much to my Ana, as you know.”

Robin didn’t respond.  Emma could tell, even from her limited view of his face, that he was fuming.  Perhaps trying to dissuade himself from throttling his uncle’s wife.

“I would so hate for something to go…wrong, this being Regina’s only chance at conceiving.”

“If I find out you’ve done something,” Robin pointed his finger at Kathryn, and it seemed an effort to keep that the extent of his physical reaction, “if I find out you’ve so much as _looked_ at her in a manner I deem offensive, your marriage to my uncle won’t save you—”

“That’s enough.”

“Bloody good time for you to speak up, Dave—glad to see you’re still capable.”

“Kathryn has a penchant for the theatrical—nothing will happen to Regina, you have my personal assurance.”

“You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t set my mind at ease.”

Kathryn grinned to herself, certain no one had seen.

_Fucking cow._

“I would appreciate you doing me this favor,” David said through gritted teeth.

Robin grew more livid by the minute.  “I’ve put my reputation on the line for this family every time you’ve asked, without complaint—not because you’re my uncle, but because I believed you an honorable man, because I believed, if given the chance, you’d be an advocate for positive change.  But now I see you’re no better than the one pulling your strings.”  He looked briefly to Kathryn.  “And _this_?  This sickens me.  As it should do you.”

The floor creaked with Emma’s attempt at creeping nearer, and she swore under her breath as every head turned toward the sound.

“You can come in now, Emma,” said Kathryn.  “We know you’ve been listening.”

 

—

 

_Sunlight poured through slits in the rails, painting stripes along his arms as the melody he played dared Emma to try and imagine a place more perfect than this.  She lay on the porch swing, swaying back and forth, a warm breeze tickling her skin, sweeping the hair from her eyes.  She watched him pause to scrawl lines in the songbook at his side.  His brow furrowed and his lips moved without sound as he read the lyrics back to himself._

_Emma left her perch and walked toward him, but he didn’t acknowledge her presence until she removed the instrument from his grip._

_“Hey—”_

_“Did you invite me over just so you could ignore me?”_

_“Feeling neglected, are we?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Killian smirked.  “What if I told you the song I’m writing is for you?”_

_Taken aback, Emma was struck silent for longer than she’d later admit.  “You’re writing me a song?”_

_“Well, not anymore.  I’m not entirely sure you deserve the privilege, Swan, after the violence you just displayed.”_

_“Trust me, Jones—you haven’t seen me violent.”_

_“Well, now you’ve piqued my interest.  Tell me something, Love—what might one have to do to incur your wrath?”_

_“Let’s hope, for your sake, you never find out.”  Emma turned up her chin, channeling a condescending air.  “And anyway, I’m far too civilized and important for such a base line of questioning.”  She peeked over at Killian to find him smiling._

_“It would appear I was right.”_

_“Oh?  What about?”_

_“You don’t deserve a song.  But on a happier note, Scarlet’s going to love his birthday gift this year.”_

_Emma laughed.  “He always did appreciate you on a different level than the rest of us.”_

_“That he did.  And it’s high time his devotion was rewarded.”_

_“You’re an idiot, you know that?”_

_“I think I’ve been told that once before.”_

_The porch faded to a crowded sidewalk two blocks from the high school, where gray skies drained the warmth from a spring day._

_“Emma,” he grasped her arm to persuade her round._

_She wrenched free, practically spitting her response.  “What?”_

_“I understand you’re mad.”_

_“I’m not mad.”_

_“Upset, then.”_

_Emma crossed her arms.  “I’m not upset.”_

_“Okay.”  He tried not to smile, and Emma wondered if he’d taken a single thing seriously since the day he was born.  “I have something for you.”_

_“I don’t want it.  Why don’t you give it to your girlfriend—she seems to enjoy things that were meant for someone else.”_

_Killian narrowed his eyes, the smirk never leaving his lips.  “You’re not…jealous, are you?”_

_Emma laughed—a tad too loud, in retrospect.  “Right.  I’m jealous.  Of her.”_

_“That’s not a ‘no,’ Love.”  Killian arched his brow._

_“Fine, I’m jealous—I’m so fucking jealous I can’t see straight, and it’s not because of some secret infatuation, so you can stop fucking smiling.”_

_This only made his smile wider, though he masked it quickly.  “What is it, then?”_

_“It’s you, Killian.  It’s what she’s turning you into.”_

_There was a shift in his eyes as every trace of humor disappeared.  “And what is_ that _?”_

_“Honestly?  You’re becoming a major prick.  You’re never around anymore and when you are, you’re drunk off your ass and calling me_ Princess _like Jefferson, only not like Jefferson, like someone who hates me.  And after Ana’s party—”_

_“How many times do I have to apologize for that?”_

_“Until you mean it.”_

_He was quiet for a long time.  “What about you, Emma?”_

_“What about me?”_

_“You like to think you’re a good person, that you’ve somehow managed to rise above your stepmother’s influence, but the truth is you two are cut from the same cloth.  You needn’t fear becoming your father—it’s Kathryn’s nature that’s shaping you.”_

_Emma stared straight ahead, biting her lip to keep it from quivering._

_For the first time in seventeen years, Killian was the last person she wanted to see, but if she walked away, would it be the end of everything they had?  Somehow, she couldn’t see them waking up the next morning and continuing on as though nothing had happened.  This argument was different from all the others.  It didn’t stem from annoyance or mild insult.  It stemmed from something far more devastating._

_“I hope she’s worth what you’re giving up.”_

_“So it’s her or it’s you?”_

_“She doesn’t love you.”_

_“Why the bloody hell do you care?”  Killian turned his gaze toward the crowd passing by, not even trying to pretend they weren’t watching the scene being made in the middle of a busy sidewalk.  “Why the sudden interest in who I date?”_

_“I…” the truth caught in her throat.  He was angrier than she’d ever seen him, and she doubted some heartfelt declaration would calm the storm raging behind his eyes.  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”_

_Killian scoffed.  “You’re too late, Love.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“It means I can’t choose you.”—_

Emma woke in a panic, the sheets tangled around her limbs like shackles.  She tried to quiet the scream echoing in her ears, only to discover that the cry wasn’t hers.

She followed the sound to the first floor, where a crowd had gathered outside Ana’s room.

 

—

 

Ana was a cow, just like her mom.  Right when Emma started to feel sorry for her, she went and named her kid Henry, knowing full well Emma had it picked out for her future son.  She could seriously strangle her sometimes, dead husband or not.

It wasn’t like Emma to confide in her stepsister, but Ana had caught her in a vulnerable moment, and had expressed regret over them not being closer.

_“You know, like_ real _sisters.”_

A few stolen sips from Kathryn’s not-so-secret reserve, and a few swapped stories of childhood embarrassment, and Emma had spilled her guts.  Looking back, she realized Ana had revealed absolutely nothing blackmail-worthy about herself.  And she couldn’t seem to ply Emma with alcohol fast enough.

He was cute, she’d give him that.  And it wasn’t his fault he was the spawn of evil incarnate.  Emma watched him through the window, all bundled up and nestled in Ana’s embrace.

Her family was gathered around Ana’s bed, smiling and laughing and making squishy faces at the kid while Emma waited in the hallway for a sign that she should join them.  She couldn’t quite stomach the thought yet.

Robin’s heart was in the right place—which was more than she could say for half of them—and he had made a valiant effort, but in the end, even he couldn’t save her.  And she was sure Regina remained oblivious to the entire ordeal.  To the order David had issued in her absence.

_“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.  You’re seventeen, Emma—you have to grow up sometime.”_

She turned from the picture-perfect moment and followed the route to her mom’s room as though by auto-pilot.  In another mood, her familiarity with the layout of the hospital might’ve disturbed her.  It’d become so ingrained in her subconscious that she could navigate its halls even in a state of mental fatigue.

She arrived to find that Mary Margaret wasn’t alone.  Killian was fast asleep in the chair by her bed, songbook lying open in his lap.  Soft music created a soothing ambiance in the dimly lit room, and Emma looked to her mom’s bedside table to see Killian’s iPod plugged into a modest speaker.

_Be more perfect,_ she thought, _I dare you._

Emma didn’t know why she was surprised to see him, didn’t know how he could still catch her so off guard, in the best possible way.

She retrieved one of the extra blankets from the room’s built-in bureau and draped it over Killian’s sleeping form.  When he didn’t react, she kneeled in front of his chair and looked up at him, perfectly at peace.

He was sometimes smug and oftentimes too proud for his own good, and she’d be damned if he didn’t drive her crazy.  But he was also sweet and selfless, and she’d be damned if her heart didn’t skip a beat every time he looked her way.

Her mom was right.  Their petty disagreements didn’t matter.  In light of recent events, it all felt so ridiculous.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I’ve been afraid.”  She brushed the hair back from his forehead, smiling despite the tears making her voice uneven.  “Killian, I love you.  I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.  I don’t know what I did to make you hate me, but I hope someday you’ll give me a chance to make it right.  I can’t…” emotion got the better of her and she couldn’t force anything louder than a whisper, “Killian, I can’t lose you.”


	7. Chapter 7

_“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”_

_Killian continued tending his hand, not looking over at Cassidy.  He watched his fingers move against his palm, but beyond the knowledge that they were attached to his body, there was nothing to suggest a connection.  He supposed he had it coming, walking after Scarlet the way he had—seemed he’d not learned his lesson the first dozen times he’d been maimed._

“It’s no worse than I could’ve done,” _Scarlet had said in his own defense._   “Could’ve lopped the thing clean off.”

_“So long as it’s not about your father’s latest fundraiser.”  Said Killian to Neal.  “Bloody imp won’t see another cent from me.”_

_“No, nothing like that.”  Neal looked over his shoulder, leaning closer to Killian.  “Listen, Jones, it’s common knowledge at this point that you and Emma have this…thing.”_

_“Thing?”  Killian glanced across the garage in time to see the subject of their discussion deliver her daily_ ‘fuck you’ _to Jefferson._

_“Did you think you were being subtle?”_

_Killian didn’t answer.  Didn’t think any argument he made would be taken seriously.  So he and Emma had been known to flirt on occasion—Killian really didn’t see the correlation between that and the world’s assumptions that they were on the road to being one of those happily ever after, white picket fence, childhood sweetheart couples they made movies about on the Hallmark channel._

_So he spent most nights imagining what it might be like to act on the occasional impure impulse.  And he didn’t always realize he was staring until it was pointed out to him.  And he may or may not have mentioned in passing when they were kids that Emma was the sort of beautiful people wrote songs about._

_None of this was evidence that they were somehow_ destined.

_“Look, I wanted to be the one to tell you.  Emma and me, we sort of…well, we’re—”_

_“Together?”  Killian cleared his throat, unable to account for his voice rising an octave._

_Neal cocked his head to one side, scrunching up his face.  “I wouldn’t say_ together _.  But our relationship has definitely reached a new level of…reciprocity.”_

_“You’re sleeping with her.”_

_Neal put his arm around Killian’s shoulder, leading him farther from the rest of the group.  “I didn’t want to get into specifics.”  He looked behind them again—no doubt on the lookout for anyone who might be dropping eaves on their conversation.  “But since you bring it up…” Neal grinned in a manner that twisted Killian’s stomach.  “Look, I don’t know if it’s gonna go anywhere, but if it does, I wanted you to hear it from me.”_

_“I appreciate it, Mate, but you don’t have to worry about me.  Emma and I are just friends.”_

_His eyes, surely in an effort to betray him, traveled back to the place she sat, laughing with Scarlet at Jefferson’s expense.  Seeming to sense Killian’s gaze, she looked over at him and smiled.  He tried to return the gesture, tried to appear unaffected by what he’d just learned, but he couldn’t manage anything beyond a scowl—_

Footsteps squeaked across the checkered floor, stirring Killian from sleep.  He didn’t look up at what was probably a nurse, come to check on Mary Margaret.  The bureau doors opened and shut, and the steps drew nearer.  He felt the soft caress of cloth against his arms as the scent of vanilla enveloped him.  Then only silence, save for the voice of Otis Redding wafting from the speaker on Mary Margaret’s bedside table.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I’ve been afraid.”  Emma’s hand was in his hair, tender in its touch.  She sounded utterly wrecked, like she’d been weighed down by the words until they left her lips.  Short breaths, an unsteady tenor of voice— _bloody hell, was she crying?_   He would’ve been kind to open his eyes before she said something she couldn’t take back.  Something Killian couldn’t un-hear.  “Killian, I love you.”

Too late.

“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

Then again, maybe he did sleep.  Surely this was a dream.  Words this perfect weren’t expressed in the waking world.  They were imagined, fantasized about, agonized over until they drove their bearer to the brink of insanity.  But never spoken.

“I don’t know what I did to make you hate me, but I hope someday you’ll give me a chance to make it right.  I can’t…” the sharp intake of breath nearly unraveled him.  He was a sodding idiot for allowing her to fall apart, thinking him unconscious all the while, “Killian, I can’t lose you.”

When he opened his eyes, he saw panic overtake hers.  He waited for regret to follow, waited for her to rush an apology, but his fears were disappointed.

Is this what she’d gone to his house to say?  Before she’d fluttered her lashes and blinked away the intensity of her gaze.  Before she’d claimed to have come for the purpose of making amends.  He should’ve kissed her then and there—just taken a leap of faith and ended the dance in which they’d been engaged for seventeen years.

He’d not be making the same mistake twice.

He leaned forward, prepared to convey his affections in a manner that language had yet to capture with any accuracy.  But his efforts were interrupted by a nurse Killian hadn’t seen enter.

“Miss Nolan?”  He said.  “I’m sorry, but the doctor needs to speak with you.”

Emma looked at the wall above her mother’s bed.  “It’s four in the morning—how’d he even know I was here?”

“We called you at home and they said you’d come to the hospital on an unrelated matter.”

She met Killian’s eye a final time before following the nurse into the corridor.  Killian watched their interaction, watched Emma’s posture go from rigid—arms crossed, expression unforgiving—to alarmed.  She took a step back, shaking her head.  He read the word _‘no’_ on her lips five separate times.  When she covered her face, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, Killian hastened to her side.

 

—

 

Emma was right.  He was a prick.

Seeing the pain etched across her features, he was reminded of the right bastard he’d been to her.  No matter his reasoning at the time, it wasn’t fair to have left her alone.  She wouldn’t have done something so hideous to him—even if he’d asked for it.  She was a better person than the lot of them, and Killian had a long way to go toward making it up to her.

But he would.  He swore to himself, and to her, though she couldn’t know it: He’d never hurt her again.

_“They have to take my mom in for emergency surgery.”  She avoided direct eye contact, instead moving her gaze about points on his shirt.  “They found something in the last round of tests, and…” she cleared her throat, “and there’s a fifty percent chance she won’t survive the procedure.”_

All Killian had been able to do was hold her.

He looked over at her now, on the verge of collapse, and took her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She turned to him with a sad smile.  “Thank you for staying.”

“Don’t mention it, Love.”

At the opposite end of the waiting room sat an elderly couple, fast asleep in each other’s arms.  Killian had overheard them talking earlier about knowing you’re old _“when your grandbabies start having babies.”_

“Do you think it’s still possible to find that?”  Asked Emma, her voice all but gone.

“Aye, Swan.  I do.”

Not breaking contact, he secured his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him.  It wasn’t moments later that he heard the change in her breathing and looked down to find her asleep.

 

—

 

He parked two blocks away, per Emma’s request.  Her family stayed behind at the hospital, but she wasn’t about to take any chances that word of their renewed friendship wouldn’t reach Kathryn.  After the incident at Ana’s birthday, Killian was banished indefinitely, and Emma forbidden from so much as breathing the same air as him.  But there’d been a time when Nolan Estate was a second home.  He missed being a welcome guest of its grounds more than he’d willingly admit out loud.

That isn’t to say his exile wasn’t earned.

Emma hadn’t stopped grinning like a fool since they’d left the hospital, and consequently, Killian hadn’t stopped since she’d started.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had good news,” she said.

“You never gave up hope, did you, Swan?”

“Of course not—don’t you know doubt is beneath me?”  She tilted her chin in that mock superior way of hers, peeking at Killian from the corner of her eye.

_It was hours before they received an update.  It was five seconds after the doctor smiled that Emma locked him in an embrace, much to the surgeon’s surprise.  He patted her back awkwardly, not wanting to spoil the moment.  And it was another minute before she traded him for Killian._

_“Did you hear that?”  She held onto him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the Earth, exhaling the deep breath Killian knew she’d been holding in since her mother was first diagnosed.  “She’s going to be okay.”_

_It was an hour after this that they were finally permitted to see Mary Margaret, and two more still before the sedation wore off and she was able to communicate properly, albeit groggily._

_Emma didn’t let go of her mother’s hand for the duration of their visit.  Every so often, Killian caught her wiping away a happy tear.  She was more talkative, more animated than he’d seen her in some time, and it soothed his weary soul._

_It was dark out by the time they departed the hospital—at Mary Margaret’s behest._

_“When’s the last time you ate anything?”  She asked Emma._

_“Not a bite all day,” said Killian._

_“Guys, I’m fine.”_

_“Come along, Swan.”  Killian took her hand.  “You’ll waste away at this rate.”_

_She was reluctant to leave her mother’s side for anything, but she eventually listened to reason, and with Killian’s promise to bring her back first thing the next morning, she followed him outside._

_They stopped in at Granny’s Diner for a late night grilled cheese and a side of onion rings, and Killian listened to her chatter away about drama at the mansion while he reveled in the unpredictability of change.  A week ago they were bitterly broken up, but this meal was like a thousand others they’d shared in their youth.  And it dared him to hope as he was wary to do anymore._

“So,” said Emma as she began tracing invisible shapes across her jeans, “are we going to pretend it never happened?”

“What’s that, Love?”  Emma arched her brow—a trait she’d picked up from him, no doubt.  “Ah, _that_.”

“Yeah, _that_.”

“Are you sorry you told me?”

It took only a smile from Emma to relieve the panic that’d assailed him, even in so short a time.  “No.”

“You know, Swan, I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous quality in a man.”

“To be sure.”  Killian smiled.  “I’ve been thinking we ought to do something about this crush you have on me.  Embarrassingly obvious, I daresay.”

Emma struck his arm, but the action was negated by her hearty laugh.  “You’re such an ass.”

“So you keep telling me.”  He watched the humor drain slowly from her face until no traces were left behind.  She looked down at her lap, chipping away at the paint on her nails.  “What is it?”

“I’m glad I told you, but nothing can happen.  I can’t…” she closed her eyes, cursing under her breath, “Killian, I can’t…date anyone.”

Killian attempted to rein in his bitterness when asking, “Has _can’t_ ever stopped you before?”  He knew he failed when Emma looked at him.

“I’ll kill Will for telling you.”

“Scarlet knows?”

“If he didn’t tell you, who did?”

Killian waited for the truth to reveal itself to her without him having to say the traitor’s name out loud.  He saw the moment it dawned on her as her mouth narrowed into an infuriated line.

“Fucking Neal.”

“Aye.  A tad eager to divulge details, at that.”

“Details?  About what?”

“Nothing I’d relish repeating.”

“Killian.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t look over at her, instead focusing his attention on a nick in his steering wheel.

“ _Killian_.”

He sighed, running his hand along the baseline of his neck.  “He was rather _explicit_ in regards to your…diversions.”

“Is that a euphemism for sex?”

Killian didn’t answer.

“He said we—he said I—I’ll kill him.  Mark my words, I will murder him dead.”

“So it isn’t true, then.”

“ _No_.  The only reason I went out with him in the first place is because—” She met Killian’s inquisitive gaze and thought better of what she’d been about to say.

“Because what?”

“Nothing—it’s not important.  I’m just glad it’s over.”

The two of them lapsed into silence while Emma’s ire wore off and Killian tried not to appear too pleased by her apparent loathing.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything, Swan.”

“Why does me dating Neal upset you so much?”

Killian made it a point to look her in the eye, even as all manner of courage left his voice.  “Don’t you know, Emma?”

He didn’t know which of them moved first, or if it was both of them at once, meeting in the middle.  One moment they stared across the console at each other, and the next, they were a tangle of limbs grasping for purchase in the dark of his car’s interior.

The world disappeared around them as Killian was lost to the grip of her hands in his hair, drawing him nearer, to the feel of her mouth against his, to the taste of her on his tongue as her own drove him mad with a desire he knew he’d never fully sate.

It wasn’t until he heard a knock on the driver’s side window that he looked up to find Emma practically in his lap.

“Hey,” said Robin from just outside.  Dave’s Town Car was parked in the street behind him, its headlights making up for that block’s broken street lamp, “Kathryn asks that you two kindly stop fornicating like wild rabbits.  She’s not so keen on being a grandmother again.”

Emma smiled at Killian, leaning forward to kiss him goodbye—a slow tease that lingered long after she was gone—without a care as to who might be watching.

Only then was Killian brave enough to whisper what’d been on the tip of his tongue, in some form, every day for as long as he could remember, “I love you, too.”

“It’s about bloody time, Jones.”  With one last impassioned display, cut short by a horn sounding in the near distance, she climbed out of the car, turning back to say, “Goodnight, Killian.”

He couldn’t be certain _goodnight_ made it from his mind to his mouth.  Indeed, he couldn’t be certain of anything as he watched her walk away—for all he knew, he was still fast asleep, reclined in a hospital chair.

Because moments this perfect didn’t happen in the waking world.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously guys, thank you SO much for reading and reviewing. I just wanted to reassure anyone who might be worried—the last chapter was not a dream. Everything that happened really happened. At the end, Killian was just thinking to himself that it all seemed too good to be true.  
> We definitely haven’t seen the end of the angst, but this chapter is a little more on the fluffy side. Killian and Emma could a use a few happy moments :)

_Killian Jones never claimed to be a genius, but this had to be the stupidest thing he would ever do._

_Girls like Emma didn’t waste their days away with sighs, pining for boys like him.  Boys who didn’t have a penny to their name and whose only claim to fame was an incident in the seventh grade that’d nearly gotten him expelled and deported in one fell swoop.  Entirely Scarlet’s fault—not that anyone believed Killian’s word on the subject._

_What could she ever see in him?  Aside from the chance to disappoint her stepmother on a grander scale than all prior attempts._

_The term_ slumming _came to mind, and Killian all but lost his nerve._

_But the words were already out there, spoken without his consent.  Impossible to get back._

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

_He’d been driven to distraction all night—had it really been necessary for her to select a dress that hugged her every curve?  Surely this clever garment was to blame for Killian’s inability to form a single coherent thought since the moment she’d opened her front door._

_Once again, his mouth had acted in its own interest._ “You look stunning, Swan.”

_Perhaps the dress was not alone in its efforts to disarm him.  Perhaps it was the scent she wore, or the intricate styling of her hair, pulled up so that her neck and shoulders were exposed, with the errant curl falling loose to outline her face.  Perhaps it was not simply the individual parts, but the whole.  Certainly her smile played a part, waiting at the corner of her mouth for just the right incentive.  The sparkle in her eyes that captivated his; it encouraged him to take her hand, to pull her flush against him, to guide her steps in time to the music.  But it was the breathless way she said,_ “You’re quite the dancer, Jones” _that had him singing the words softly against her skin._

_And it was the quiet sound that passed her lips—like a low moan—that’d dared him to hope._

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.  As long as I’ve known you.

The first time I saw you, something clicked.  Something stirred.  Something—everything—fell into place.

The moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew.  The way a sailor knows the stars, my soul recognized the way home.

I’ll forgive your laughter, Swan, for I know well we were young—much younger than we are now.  Too young.

But the moment my hand brushed yours, the moment your eyes met mine, I saw myself reflected in you, and my heart was forever changed.

_It pounded loudly, thudding against his chest, the rush of blood like rolling thunder in his ears._

_“Okay.”  She whispered._

_“Emma, I—”_

_“There you are—whoa.”  Jefferson laughed, but all Killian heard was his confession shattering like glass at his feet.  “Finally giving our little Princess that private tutorial?”_

“So, are we gonna talk about it, or are you two going to pretend I don’t see you making eyes at each other?”

Killian looked up to see Mary Margaret cutting her gaze between them—only then did he realize he’d been staring at her daughter.

And she’d been staring back.  “What?”

“Are you gonna fill me in, or…?”

Emma brushed the hair behind her ear and crossed her legs.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, honey, I hope you’re not planning to take after your father—you don’t have the poker face for politics.”

“It’s nothing—there’s nothing.”

“Hm…” Mary Margaret studied Emma before turning her interrogation on Killian.  “When did it happen?”

“Last night.”

“Killian!”  Emma scolded.

“Who made the first move?”  Said Mary Margaret.

“Depends what you consider the first move.”  Killian grinned.  “If we’re being technical, I did kiss her first.”

_“He…” Killian scratched behind his ear, shyly smiling, “…he and Jefferson…and Will think that I…like you.  So you see, it’s not really about you.”_

_“Do you…like me?”_

Emma buried her face in her hands.  “We’re not having this conversation.”

Mary Margaret’s face lit up like the night sky on the Fourth of July.  “You kissed?”

“Mom.  Can we _not_?”

“Right, sorry.”  Mary Margaret pressed her lips together as though to signify she was done speaking, but she couldn’t keep the smile from re-forming.

Emma turned to Killian, armed with a glare, but she couldn’t maintain her fury for long after he shot her a wink.  “So, Mom,” she said, making a show of ignoring him, “did the doctor say when you can come home?”

“Honey, it was one procedure.  We’re not completely out of the woods yet.”

“But he said it went well—he said it was the breakthrough they’ve been waiting for.  He said it was like a miracle, that he’d never seen anything like it in his surgical career.  You were…” Emma swallowed thickly, “you were _dying_ , and now you’re not.”

“I know, honey, but they still want to keep an eye on me, make sure they didn’t miss anything.  And it takes time to recover from surgery, even without preexisting conditions.”

Emma nodded, and while she was ultimately overjoyed, Killian observed the small disappointed sigh.  “Okay,” she said, almost to herself.  “But you’ll tell me as soon as they say you can leave?”

“The very instant I know, you’ll know.”  Mary Margaret cupped her daughter’s cheek and Emma leaned into her touch.  “Don’t spend all your free time worrying about me—not with a boyfriend who looks like _that_.”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“Have you just been waiting my whole life for the chance to embarrass me?”

“Well, you didn’t give me many opportunities when you were younger—you were far too well behaved.”  Mary Margaret lowered her voice, but if Killian strained hard enough, he could’ve sworn he heard something along the lines of, “Now’s the time to make up for that.”

 

—

 

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Emma said sternly, but her words didn’t have the full impact when her fingers were laced with his, “because if you think I’m going to forgive you—”

Killian tugged on their joined hands, drawing her forward into a chaste kiss.  But she melted against him, and what stared out innocently enough escalated into a proper public display.  One that only ended when Emma rested her forehead against his.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“If this is you cross, Love, I’d hate to see you in a pleasant mood—hm, actually, I take that back.  What do you say we take this conversation to a more private setting?”

With a laugh, Emma shoved him back.  “Not on your life, perv.”  She reclaimed possession of his hand and walked with him to his car, parked in the farthest corner of a crowded lot.

She was about to let go when Killian persuaded her round, pressing her up against the passenger side door.  Meeting her eye in that moment, he felt as though he were seeing her clearly for the first time.  The truth he’d been reluctant to believe, reluctant to imagine might be possible, shone like a beacon from every facet of her emerald stare.

_“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”_

He brushed her hair back from her shoulder, letting his caress linger along her arm.  “What are your plans for this evening?”

“I guess I could study—my grades are starting to slip a little.”

“Down to a B average, is it?”  Killian arched his brow.

“Shut up.”

“I’ve been meaning to try the new restaurant that just opened on the wharf.  Any interest in joining me?”

Emma smiled.  “Killian Jones, are you asking me on a date?”

“That was my intent, yes.”

In lieu of any spoken acceptance, Emma linked her arms around his neck and kissed him like she might never get the chance again.

“I could really get used to that, Swan.”

“Good, because I plan to make it a habit.”

 

—

 

“It’s not that cold,” said Emma through chattering teeth.

Killian saw the shivers spread like waves across her limbs as the winds picked up speed.  “You’re a bloody liar.  And not a very convincing one.”

Emma arched her brow as Killian secured his jacket around her shoulders.  “Don’t think this means you’re getting lucky tonight.”

“Has no one told you, Swan?  I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”  Killian grinned.  “Looks good on you.”

Smiling, she pulled the zipper closed as far as it would go.  “Has no one told you, Jones?  Leather suits me.”

“That it does.”  Killian tucked his hand under her chin, fighting the temptation that’d plagued him all night—plagued him for the last five years, if he was being honest.

Seeming to read his thoughts when his gaze traveled to her lips, Emma took his hand and guided him along their previous path.

The restaurant was nothing special.  Yet another place to find overcooked fish and undercooked sides.  But the company more than made up for any imperfections.  Even running into Scarlet hadn’t been the catastrophe Killian might’ve imagined—rather, Scarlet running into Emma, who bumped the waiter, who spilled his tray of drinks down the front of her pale pink dress.

_“Are you two a thing now?”  Asked Scarlet while Emma used her napkin to dry herself (she waved off Killian’s aid after he acted on reflex and reached for the point of greatest impact, which in this case was Emma’s chest)._

_“Sorry, Love.”  He said with a chuckle, not as embarrassed as he probably should’ve been._

_She rolled her eyes with a smirk of her own, and set to work, saying between dabs, “Yes, we are a thing now, so feel free to tell your friends, rent a billboard—Killian and I are having business cards printed with the caption ‘_ We’re a couple now, bitches, so get on board _.’”  She winked at Killian, who laughed._

_“You mind if I tweet this?”  Scarlet pulled out his phone, holding it in front of his face at a horizontal angle.  “You know what they say—photo or it never happened.”_

_Emma abandoned her task to stand by Killian, one arm around his waist, one hand rested on his chest.  Just in time for the flash, Killian pulled her close—eliciting a sound that was part surprise part delight—and kissed her cheek._

Looking at her now, the spark had faded from her eyes.  Indeed, she bore an expression that was entirely too familiar.  It took him back in time, to the day she’d first learned of her mother’s illness.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.  “Something wrong?”

“No.”  She plastered on a bright smile—as fake as the night was dark.  “Nothing.”

Killian stopped walking; Emma was forced to do the same, and though her body faced him, she trained her eyes everyplace but his.  “Emma?”

Her mouth moved without sound around the words “It’s nothing,” as tears formed behind her lashes and spilled over the edge.

Killian cradled her face in his hand, whispering her name as a plea, though he hadn’t intended to sound quite so desperate.

“It’s just…” her voice cracked and she laughed lightly before falling serious again.  “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Killian completed the kiss he’d actively avoided all evening for fear of scaring her away.  It didn’t end at her lips, but followed a path to her jaw and then her neck as Killian closed her in an embrace.

“It’s a shame we wasted so much time.”

“Killian, I’m so sorry.”

“We’ve said our apologies, Love.  I’m ready to move forward if you are.”  He felt her nod against his shoulder, and he smiled.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

_Not ever again._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys-as always, thanks for reading and commenting. The story took a bit of a detour I didn't anticipate, but I figured the best way to get some insight into what happened with Snowing was to have a chapter from one of their perspectives, so we will be hanging out with Mary Margaret this chapter-hope that's okay? And I feel I should warn you, it will probably upset the Snowing shippers because it's pretty angsty. All I ask is that you keep an open mind, as there are multiple sides to every story and this is only a small glimpse into their past. We're only on chapter nine, and there's a lot more story to tell.
> 
> We'll be back to Killian and Emma next chapter :)

_Maybe it was that she’d only just realized the abruptness with which time was capable of shifting course, but it was truer now than ever before—tangible, as though she could take it in hand.  Fragile, too—as though by doing so, it might crumble beneath the weight of her discontent._

_One minute, the world was exactly as it should have been.  And then it wasn’t._

_How was it that a solitary act, a decision so routinely familiar that it scarcely registered as a conscious choice anymore, had changed her life…forever?_

_—_

_She traced the curve of his brow, causing a crease to form and a quiet moan to escape him.  She smiled, pulling her hand away to stifle a laugh.  When his face relaxed, she felt it was safe to continue her exploration, running caresses along his cheek, and his jaw, lined with the first traces of stubble._

_It was far from their first night together, but where their previous encounters had been the result of passionate lust, this was the culmination of something stronger, something unbreakable.  Something absolute.  Somehow every touch had felt like finding home.  When she woke at first light, enveloped in his arms, she knew no place would every compare to the warmth of his embrace._

_She wondered if she should wake him, and in what manner, considering the many ways the night could be reenacted.  But with this thought came a ripple of panic across her chest._

_What if he didn’t feel the same?_

_“Are you about done?”  David peeked at her through one open eye._

_“Morning.”  She smiled._

_“Mm.  Morning.”  His hand was at her hip, his thumb stroking small circles across her skin.  Then, without warning, he pulled her forward, rolling their bodies until she was pinned beneath him.  “I could get used to waking up to you.”_

_“Good.”  Mary Margaret combed her fingers through his honey blond hair.  “Because I just gave my landlord notice.”_

_David laughed, and the next thing Mary Margaret knew, she was lost in a kiss that quelled her every fear.  One that told her she wasn’t in this alone._

_“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”_

_“What?”_

_“Giving your landlord notice.  With Victor leaving for the summer, I’ll be looking for a new roommate anyway.”_

_“Are you…asking me to move in with you?”_

_“I might be.”  David smiled.  Then his expression turned serious, almost grave.  “This might sound cliché, but…losing James made me realize how short life is.  And when you know what you want, there’s no sense wasting time.”  He took a deep breath as he searched her eyes.  “You’re what I want.”_

_Mary Margaret was on him in a flash, switching their positions atop the tangled sheets, David’s laughter ringing out and infecting every part of her._

_“Is that a yes?”_

_“Yes.”  She kissed his cheek.  “Yes.”  His jaw.  “Yes.”  Down his neck and back again.  “Yes.”_

_“Has anyone ever told you what a difficult woman you are?”_

_—_

_She didn’t know how much time had passed since the creaking of hinges announced her presence—minutes, hours—but her life had been divided.  There was before, and there was now._

_“Mary Margaret!”—_

“Mary Margaret?”

She woke to a familiar sight, and for a moment, she thought she might still be dreaming.  The low light caught his eyes, giving them a pearlescent glow, and he smiled at her, the concerned crease leaving his brow.

“Hey,” he said in a soft voice—torturously reminiscent of years past, “you were having a nightmare.”

“Mm,” her muscles protested her efforts to sit up.  It was then, as his hand moved along her arm, that she realized it’d previously been on her shoulder.  “How long have you been here?”

“Couple hours.”

“Does Kathryn know?”  David’s expression answered on his behalf.  “Right, silly question.  I guess that means you haven’t told Emma, either.”

“That I’ve been coming here when I should be heading city council meetings?”  David laughed as he seated himself in the chair Emma occupied during her visits.  “No.”

“You never know,” said Mary Margaret.  “She might take it better than you think.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.  You know she’s been asking a lot of questions about what happened between us.  I think she may have gotten the wrong impression the last time we were both here.”

“Oh?”  Mary Margaret swallowed thickly as a sinking feeling descended upon her chest.

_“I’ll tell Killian if you talk to Dad._ Really _talk to him.”_

Had Mary Margaret really subscribed to her daughter’s hopes that maybe—just maybe—David had ulterior motives for coming to the hospital?  That he’d spent the last seventeen years pining for her?  That the harsh words and ultimatums had all been an attempt to hide some deeper truth?

“I told her it was complicated.”

“That’s one way to describe it.”  Mary Margaret smiled as best she could, deciding to change the subject before either of them got swept away with nostalgia.  “I was surprised you let her have an evening out with Killian, given your anti-dating policy.”

“I did what?”

“You…didn’t know, did you?”

“She said she needed Regina’s help on a school project.  Robin vouched for her.”  Mary Margaret tried not to laugh when David swore under his breath.  “And here I was afraid she’d turn out like _me_.”

“Are you implying this is _my_ fault?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”  David smiled, and Mary Margaret’s stomach did a nervous flip.

It’d been seventeen years, but she’d be damned if everything she’d ever felt for him didn’t come rushing in like a flood whenever he was near.

Public office looked good on him—he was as handsome as ever.  And charming—God, was he charming.  She wondered if his voters could tell when it was authentic and when it was a play to pull them in.  Mary Margaret could always tell—he was something of an open book to her.  Now, for instance.  She knew his concern stemmed from somewhere genuine, for Emma if no one else, but he was working hard to hide something.

His smile was a little too bright.  His laugh a little too loud.

Still, Mary Margaret would take it over the alternative:  The same stale argument forever on repeat.  _“How many times are you going to throw that in my face?”_ and _“I can’t wait ‘til Emma turns eighteen so I never have to see you again,”_ and Mary Margaret voicing her wish that David’s wife would choke on a chicken bone that escaped the chef’s attention—not that she spent much time entertaining that particular fantasy.

“While you’re here, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Okay.”  David leaned forward, listening intently.

_“Mary Margaret!”_

_He chased her through the parking lot, despite the pouring rain.  Mary Margaret couldn’t help a bitter laugh—of course it was fucking raining._

_Sometimes she wondered if the heavens coordinated the weather around circumstances that molded a person’s life.  It always seemed to know when something loomed beyond the quiet morning mist, like an omen of worse things to come._

_Suddenly the anxiety she’d felt all day made sense, starting with when she’d awoken to see dark clouds over the streets of Storybrooke, and she’d released a sigh that only the window heard.  She thought the reason had revealed itself inside a cold office on the edge of town, but now…_

_Now she wished she could take back the last year of her life._

_“Mary Margaret, wait.”  Hand grasping her arm, he forced her to face him.  “Please, let me explain.”_

_She jerked free of his grip and crossed her arms, waiting._

_“I don’t…I…” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as the rain washed over his half-naked frame.  Even his feet were bare, standing in a puddle that would soon reach his ankles.  “I don’t know what happened—I don’t remember any of this.”_

_“You expect me to believe that?”_

_“It’s the truth.”_

_“David, you were in bed with someone else—”_

_“I know how it looks—”_

_“How it looks?”  She was yelling now, but she couldn’t help it.  She wanted to wring his neck, wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him feel the way she’d felt in that moment when she’d walked in—_

_God, she wanted to cry._

_But she wouldn’t show him just how badly he’d broken her._

_“It_ looks _like you cheated.”_

_“Mary Margaret, please.”  His lip quivered, and the action nearly did her in.  “Don’t go.  Help me understand.”_

_“What’s to understand?”  He pulled her forward, hoping to persuade her with a kiss—and damn if her heart wasn’t tempted to let him linger.  Gathering her wits, she shoved him back.  “Goodbye, David.”  She turned to leave before remembering why she’d gone to his apartment in the first place—light on her feet as the expression ‘walking on air’ finally made perfect sense, the day’s anxiety finally abated.  “Oh, and congratulations.”  She scoffed.  “You’re going to be a father.”_

“Mary Margaret?”  David’s voice cut through her thoughts, returning her to the present.

“Uh…about Emma.”  She said, losing her nerve.  “Don’t be too hard on her.  She’s young and in love—we all know what that’s like.”

“Yeah,” said David, meeting her eye, “we all do.”

_“And don’t tell me there’s nothing to say…”_

The two of them lapsed into silence, the cloying beep of machines the only sound to break the quiet.

Then David clapped his hands on his knees and got to his feet.  “Well, I should head out.”

_“What was that you were saying about regret?”_

He hesitated at the door before saying, “Goodbye, Mary Margaret.”

When she answered, she felt like she was eighteen again, alone in her apartment, staring at the last box she’d packed that afternoon, and mourning the hope she’d had for her future when she’d taped it shut.  “Goodbye, David.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for reading and commenting—and for hanging in after that last chapter. I know it’s a lot of little out-of-order snippets thrown together, but as I said, it’s only a small glimpse into Snowing’s past. I promise everything will make sense by the end. I do plan to have a chapter later on from David’s point of view, so we’ll get his side of things as well. But for now, back to CS :)
> 
> So I went back and forth about making Killian’s girlfriend—well, ex at this point—someone from the Once universe, and ultimately decided against it. Just FYI for when you get to the point where her name is mentioned.

“Why did we wait so long to do this?”

“We’re fucking idiots.”

Emma laughed, said, “Speak for yourself,” and staked hungry claim of his mouth a second time.

Killian, in desperate attempt to live up to his reputation, _“I’m nothing if not a gentleman,”_ kept his hands from wandering too far from the designated safe zones—back, shoulders, the occasional thigh—but _bloody hell_ if every brush of her jeans against his didn’t have him aching for any scrap she was willing to toss his way.

They hadn’t repeated those three little words, and it left Killian the slightest bit uneasy.

If _slight_ was equal to _extreme_.

It’d only been a couple days, but terror had already begun its descent upon his thoughts.  What if Emma’s declaration at the hospital was the result of stress over her mother’s condition?  What if she hadn’t meant for him to hear, but had in fact counted on his being unconscious?

“Killian?”  She took his bottom lip between her teeth, biting gently, took his subsequent moan as encouragement to continue her line of questioning.

In truth, he may have momentarily forgotten how to speak English.

“Why did you and Callie break up?”

That was the last thing he expected, and it sobered him quicker than a cold shower.  He broke contact to look Emma in the eye, his expression asking on his behalf if he’d heard her correctly.

She smiled sweetly, batting her lashes like she wasn’t a bloody temptress in disguise.  “Bad time to bring it up?”

“Not the best, Love.”  Killian raked his hand through his hair as Emma climbed off his lap and onto the bed beside him.

She was the one to lure him upstairs under the pretense of “studying,” the one to abandon her books before the spines were cracked, the one to insist they make up for lost time—an entire day seated in overcrowded classrooms at opposite ends of campus, texting back and forth about who’d reached the more excruciating level of boredom.

_When it became clear that neither side would concede the point, Emma reminded him that his days of winning disputes were over, now they were official.  Not that he’d been the victor often enough in the past to merit any grievance on his end._

_When the clock struck 2:17, precisely, his phone buzzed with an alert he would’ve sworn carried her internal whine._

**_Killian…_ **

_He smiled when typing his reply. **Yes, Love?**_

**_Is it me or is this day dragging?_ **

**_It’s not you._ **

**_A good boyfriend would tell me a story._ **

**_A good girlfriend would tell me what she’s wearing._ **

_He imagined a narrowing of her eyes with the delay of her next text. **Perv.**_

**_And you aren’t one yourself, is it?_ **

_Another prolonged pause. **I didn’t say that…**_

“It’s been, I don’t know, bothering me a little.”  Emma’s gaze met his.  “A lot.  She seemed pretty upset.”

“Aye, she was.”

“She seemed pretty upset…with me.”

Killian grinned, more from discomfort than anything.  “She was.”

Emma waited for the explanation Killian was loath to give.  Exactly how did one go about admitting he was such a complete wreck over another person that he could scarcely breathe when she wasn’t around?  That even the smallest interactions throughout the course of their separation had sentenced him to sleepless nights, and that even when sleep deigned to honor him, it was with haunted memories that soaked him in a cold sweat?

That he’d grasped at a sliver of hope, the likes of which had assailed him as surely as her mother’s words, scorching like fire through his veins, _“I’d hate for you to end up with the wrong person.”_

“She became aware of my feelings for you.”

“You told her?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

_She stood under the archway shared by the living room and the foyer, arms crossed, pressing her lips into so firm a line as to have Killian convinced she’d worry a hole in them._

_“Is this about Emma?”_

_“No.”_

_“Really, Killian?  Do you think I don’t see you eye-fucking each other all the time?”_

_“We don’t—”_

_She laughed the maniacal sort of laugh that preceded most fictional homicides.  “I don’t know why I’m even fucking surprised.  You know, Neal warned me this would happen—they all warned me.  ‘You’ll never matter, Callie, not really.  Not the way she does.  They’re meant for each other, don’t you see?’”_

_Killian sighed, trying and failing to ignore the voice in the back of his mind calling him all manner of well-deserved obscenities._

_“The least you can do is be honest with me.  For once.”_

_He nodded, despite that same voice telling him it was a trap._

_“Did you ask me out to make her jealous?”_

_His hesitation did him in—or was it the look in his eyes?  His own disinclination to keep up the charade?  Whatever it was that finally betrayed him, it set off a chain reaction he couldn’t contain.  All he could do was watch as she set a course for his mother’s antique heirlooms, the first among them splintering into innumerable shards just as someone knocked at the front door._

“The end was a long time coming.”

He looked over to find Emma smiling—grinning like a fool, more like.  “You know, Killian, I’ve been thinking.”  She closed the space between them and linked her arms behind his neck.  “We should do something about this crush you have on me.  _Embarrassingly_ obvious.”

Killian smiled.  “Is that so?”

Her teasing was far from finished.  A peck on the lips—much too brief for his tastes—and it was on to, “Did you really tell my mom we’d get married?”

Killian cleared his throat, formulating answers that wouldn’t paint him as the lovesick sod he’d been from day one, but he had a feeling she’d see straight through them.

“I may have uttered some variation of those words.  Once or twice.”  The brightness of Emma’s smile was worth the blow to his pride.  “You know, _technically_ , we’ve already married—or have you so soon forgotten?”

Emma laughed, using her body as a means of persuading him onto his back, and hitched a leg on either side of his hips.

“Is this where you have your wicked way with me, Swan?”

“This,” she said against his collarbone, grazing his skin with her teeth as she worked her way up to whisper in his ear, “is where I show you what you’ve been missing out on, running around with other girls.”

There was a gleam in her eyes Killian had never seen—both darkened by desire and alight with anticipation as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, and—

_Fuck._

The universe must’ve known they were about to cross a line they weren’t ready for, because the instant their mouths melded to one another, there was a knock at Killian’s door.  One that sent Emma across the room in a flash.  She seated herself at Killian’s desk, reaching for the first textbook to meet her grasp, and held it in front of her face.  Killian, meanwhile, scrambled for the TV remote he’d wedged between the mattress and the wall during a fit of rage at the device’s noncompliance.

His mother believed herself quieter than she was, and Killian found it beneficial to play along, so it was a full thirty seconds before anyone moved.

“Home early, darling.”

Killian delivered a performance that was perhaps a tad over the top, but his audience’s attention was trained on Emma, who set aside the textbook she’d been “reading” upside down.

“Emma?  Is that you, Love?”

They met in an embrace that created a barricade between Killian and the program he was pretending to watch—who’d left it switched to the nature channel, he couldn’t guess, but there was a pair of spotted animals engaged in the sort of activity he and Emma had been nearing before his mother’s interruption.  Which, as much as it pained him to admit, was probably for the best.  While the transition from friends to _more than_ had been smoother than he would’ve expected, Killian didn’t want to take things too far too fast.  Not this time.

His mother absolutely adored Emma, always had—not that Killian could fault her for this.  Much.  She’d reached a point worse than Mary Margaret and was halfway to naming their unborn children.  Although, if the incident with the mistletoe was any indication, this was the case in theory more than practice.

Most days she called her _Emmalove_ , without pause, like the two were one name.

_“Emmalove, be a saint and pass the salt.  Lord knows my son can’t be bothered.”_

_“Taste this, Emmalove—new recipe in the works for Christmas cupcakes.”_

_“Remind me to find those jeans for you—I’ll be damned if I ever fit in an American two again.  Once you’ve birthed Jones boys, your hips just never recover.  Keep that in mind, Emmalove, if you know what’s good for you.”_

Emma had opened her mouth to argue that last point, but all that came out was a strangled sound from the back of her throat.  Killian had winked at her, but all that’d earned him was a spoonful of red frosting splattered across his favorite shirt.

“Killian didn’t tell me you two reconciled.”

Emma smiled, at the same time trying to appear casual about smoothing down her hair.  “He wanted to surprise you.”

“Mhm.”  She looked at Killian with an expression that told him she was wise to their schemes.  But—thank God—she chose not to worsen the awkwardness of the moment.  “You’ve got another postcard from your brother.  Claiming to be at some castle in Lichtenstein.”

Ever since Liam had been unceremoniously dismissed from their mother’s house—and consequently, her good graces—he’d sent “clues” as to his whereabouts abroad.  Last month it’d been Glasgow.  Shanghai the month before that.

“He only does it to irritate you.”

“I’m aware.  I haven’t got sons, I’ve got cheeky little ingrates—you know, it wouldn’t kill you to say, ‘thanks Mum, love you Mum,’ once in a while.”

“Thanks Mum, love you Mum.”  Killian gave the definition of a _cheeky_ smile.

The arched brow she’d passed on to him conveyed how utterly unamused she was before she turned back to Emma.  “Should I set an extra place at the table, Love?”

“Thanks, but I should be heading home.  Killian?”  Emma looked to him, the portrait of innocence when saying, “Give me a ride?”

 

—

 

“I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you.”

They exchanged knowing smiles as Emma made no effort to leave and Killian made no effort to relinquish his hold.  A few more rounds of this and they gave up pretending they were ready to say goodbye, returning themselves to the position they’d assumed during every private moment that weekend.

Monday had come too soon.  The lack of shared classes that’d felt like a small mercy during their season of estrangement felt now like a fresh form of torture that had Killian watching the clock more frequently than usual.

He’d walked Emma to her first class, outside of which they’d parted in a manner that brought to mind Emma’s quip to Scarlet about business cards, announcing their new status to the student body.  Of course, there were pitfalls that went with blocking the only entrance to Mr. Booth’s History.

_“Mind getting a room so the rest of us can get by?”_

_Killian and Emma broke apart to see Cassidy standing close._

_“Jones,” he said with what he’d often referred to as a_ bro nod _.  And to Emma, he hissed, “Princess,” before pushing past them._

She sat so close to Killian at lunch that he wondered why they didn’t simply share one chair.  He’d draped his arm over her shoulder, and she leaned into him, which prompted the others at their table to make noises of disgust whenever he and Emma so much as blinked.

_“I bleedin’ told ya,” said Scarlet._

_Jefferson reached into his pants pocket, rolling his eyes as he came away with a wad of crumpled bills.  He grumbled to himself when dropping it into Scarlet’s waiting palm._

_“Well that explains the Twitter pic,” said Emma._

_“To the day.”  Jefferson shook his head.  “I don’t know how he does it—how could you possibly predict something like that?  You guys didn’t plan this out in advance, did you?”_

_“Hardly,” said Killian._

_“Fear not, Hat Trick,” said Scarlet.  “You’ll get the chance to win back your money.  After all, it’s only a matter of time until these two call it quits of a more permanent nature.”_

_“Hey!”  Emma and Killian said in unison._

_“I give it three months.”_

_Jefferson eyed the couple and said, “I’ll take that bet.”_

Emma spent the weekend at Killian’s house, practically in its entirety, during which time they’d fallen easily into old patterns, with the addition of some minor physical contact—okay, an excess of physical contact.  It was like something inside them had been unleashed after years of imprisonment.  And they couldn’t get enough.

“Okay.”  She pulled away.  “I really have to go now.  I promise we can study at your house tomorrow.”

“I like the sound of this _studying_ , Swan.  Pray, tell, what does it entail?”

“A little of this.”  She leaned forward to kiss his neck.  “And a little of this.”  And then his jaw.  “And a _lot_ …” by the time she found her way to his mouth, she’d cupped his face in both hands and her voice had taken on a sultry tenor, her words having lost all trace of their previous taunt, “of this.”

Drawing slowly, reluctantly back, Killian decided not to be a fool for once in his life.

It’d been fear that kept him silent after their near-kiss last Christmas Eve.  It’d been fear that saw him retreating into cowardice after his near-confession outside the theatre at Prom.  And it’d been fear that prevented him from ending a relationship he never should’ve started.

Fear would not get the better of him now.

He tucked the hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger as he said, “I love you, Emma.”

She didn’t answer right away.  She smiled and let the seconds drag on.  Only once Killian became convinced that madness would soon welcome him into its ranks did she put him out of his misery.  “I love you, too.”

For the second time in Killian’s life, everything fell into place, and he knew he would never feel about anyone the way he felt about Emma.

_In love_ didn’t do it justice.

She was his anchor.  His true north.  His every reason to hope in the impossible.

Because things like this didn’t happen.  Soul mates and True Love and happy endings were fairytales taught to children to turn their attentions from the darkness.  And fairytales didn’t exist in the real world—if they did, they weren’t found by boys like him, with girls like Emma.  And certainly not at seventeen.

It was too good to be true, and he felt the threat of something on the horizon, coming to shatter him on the rocks of his naiveté.  But when he looked at Emma, when he read the trust in her eyes, his fears were erased like phantoms come first light.

And it was safe to breathe again.


	11. Chapter 11

"Gently, darling."

"This thing's defective." She tugged on the navy blue strip of fabric that felt more like a noose with her merciless attempts to cut off his air supply. "Or your neck is. Why are ties necessary in life?"

"Damned if I know. If it were up to me, the dress code would be  _clothing optional_." Emma's eyes shot to his. "Kidding."

"I know. You're always kidding."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She yanked the tie free of Killian's collar and tossed it on his bed with the others. "Doesn't Connor have a clip-on or something?"

"Must've taken it with him."

Emma sighed, her back to him. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine. I'll just…do without." Killian adjusted his shirt, smoothing out the parts Emma had ruffled, while he watched her clear his comforter of the garments that'd gathered, either too casual or too outdated to meet the night's requirements.

The women closest to him had been acting…strangely, of late.

His mother was coping with turning forty in a manner he'd been warned was unique to Jones women. He really didn't think he should be blamed for the natural progression of a person's life, but all week, she'd gone back and forth between calling him her favorite son— _"Don't tell your brother"—_ and asking why he didn't put her out of her misery already— _"They all leave. Why should you be any different?"_  One minute she was an absolute wreck at the thought of Killian's own upcoming milestone— _"Soon you'll be a man and then what'll I do with you?"—_ and the next, he was drawing comparisons to Liam— _"Did the two of you conspire against me as children? Was I such a terrible mother?"_

He'd had to rein in his frustration more often than usual, but he wasn't about to complain about his new role in the household. He was the only support his mother had left, and he couldn't fault her for the state of her emotions, what with Liam leaving, and now Connor.

_"Gone? When did this happen?"_

_"A while ago."_

_"Why didn't you tell me?"_

_Killian shrugged. "Didn't seem important."_

_Emma was on him in a flash, holding him tighter than was probably necessary, as though she hoped her arms would fit the broken pieces back together. "I'm so sorry."_

_"It's not like he was my real dad."_

_Even though he'd raised Killian from a young boy, had taught him how to sail a boat and how to drive a car. How to be a gentleman and how not to be a coward. But that's what Connor was in the end. A coward._

"A man honors his commitments," _he used to tell Killian, applying this principle to seemingly everything—a promise to empty the rubbish bin or walk the dog or finish his studies before going out with friends. When Killian asked about the first man his mother had loved—which happened more frequently than Killian liked to admit—Connor would take a deep breath to calm his rage and say,_ "A man stays."

Emma's moods, while equally curious, were less erratic. Their changes came subtly, and in a manner most others might overlook. Every so often, she'd get these far-off looks in her eyes, as though her gaze could clear a thousand miles without tiring. And sometimes when she thought Killian wasn't looking, a slight sorrow washed over her, almost melancholic. When he asked her what was wrong, she'd flutter her lashes and deliver a light laugh that landed clumsily on his ears and say,  _"Nothing."_

It reminded him of something she'd said about photographic editing. Around the same time he'd told her of his stepfather's departure, Emma started to have the appearance of a portrait that was slowly being stripped of color.

They'd fought more in the past week than they had during the full three months of their relationship—during the full seventeen years of their acquaintance, to be sure. That day was no exception. It wasn't the sort that started out as mild annoyance and switched easily to snarky banter and innuendos and culminated in the kind of activity that made the difference between arguing with a friend and arguing with a significant other. This was sharp words and huffs and,  _"I don't give a fuck_ what _you do."_

It felt far too familiar, for all the worst reasons.

_Killian was aware of the bitterness twisting his words, and of the riot that'd awakened this particular dragon._

"I wouldn't say  _together_. But our relationship has definitely reached a new level of…reciprocity."

_The vitriol being unleashed wasn't his—it belonged to a version of himself he hadn't meant to show her, a lovelorn and hateful version he didn't want to know._

_His heart betrayed him, its last beat born of hope as he caught a glimpse of Emma's walls falling away. But his mind must've been playing tricks because when he looked again, they were as impenetrable as ever._

_"I don't want you to get hurt."_

_Killian scoffed. "You're too late, Love."_

_"What does that mean?"_

It means you chose someone else.

_"It means I can't choose you."_

Something about that day had him on edge, something unnamed, like a faceless, clouded blur in the back of his mind. It was as though the stars or planets—whatever it was that aligned when events of climactic proportions fell into place—were getting into position somewhere in the cosmos. The thought alone was daunting enough; when coupled with the near constant ire in his girlfriend's voice, it threatened to unravel him.

"Hey," he said when Emma made a move for the door. She turned but didn't respond, waiting with a hard expression. "I was thinking we could catch a movie later—this thing's bound to be wrapped up by nine, and that's being optimistic."

Her expression—or rather, the lack of change therein—answered on her behalf. "Let's just get this over with."

—

Lightning split the sky and thunder answered without delay as he stared out from the steps of his back porch, Westley curled up at his side, sleeping soundly through the storm. Crate paper streamers hung limply from the trees, torn to near shreds by the rain that'd sent the party inside. Lawn chairs lay scattered and overturned, and partially emptied plates cluttered the folding tables he'd rented.

He and Emma hardly said two words to each other throughout the course of the evening, and even those were primarily food related. Killian's duties as self-appointed event coordinator had been his one consolation—he'd been too focused on keeping his mother and her guests entertained, on keeping their attention off the two notable absences, to worry about the state of his relationship. Every time his mother's eyes drifted toward the main entrance, the smallest flicker of hope brightening her eyes, Killian would take her hand and she'd smile up at him.

When his uncles rolled out the cake that was twice her size, she'd kissed his cheek and said,  _"My boy."_

That single utterance was enough to counteract the week's passive aggressive remarks.

"Hey."

Killian didn't look over at Emma's approach. "Hey."

The traitor of a black lab, unmoved by the heavens opening up, leapt to his feet and barreled straight for her—her laugh in no way chipped away at Killian's resolve. If she could walk around in an eternal strop, then he'd bloody well do the same.

She took a seat next to him and Westley lay beside to her, resting his head in her lap. He may have lived with Killian, but that dog had been Emma's from the moment she named him after her favorite fictional pirate.

"We need to talk."

Killian found that when a woman said that, he wasn't in for a pleasant conversation. But his fears lessened when Emma took his hand and laced her fingers with his.

"I know I've been short with you lately."

"That's an understatement."

"Are you going to let me apologize, or not?"

Killian grinned. "Go ahead."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you going to tell me what's been bothering you?"

Emma turned her eyes toward the storm. "Things at my dad's have been…stressful. But it isn't fair of me to take that out on you. Luckily," she smiled—the first Killian had seen in…he couldn't remember how many days, "he and the step-monster are out of town this weekend."

"Is that all there is, Love?"

Her good humor faltered, but she recovered quickly. "Yes."

"You know you can tell me anything."

"I know." She leaned forward to give him what started out as a peck but intensified to the point that Killian sincerely hoped his mother didn't happen by the sliding glass door. The recent combative nature of his and Emma's interactions had deprived them of all forms of physical intimacy, and it was never more palpable than in the instant their lips touched. Emma was the first to break contact. "Take me home?"

—

They were sopping wet by the time they reached her front door, laughing as they ran up the steps at what turned out to be a pitiful attempt to escape the deluge. Emma's eyes were brighter than they'd been in weeks as she pulled him forward by the collar of his coat, seeming to be in a hurry to make up for lost time.

"Gently, darling."

Emma laughed, running her hands through his sodden mane. "I'm going to ask you to come in now, and you're going to turn me down because you think it's the right thing to do."

"I don't—"

"You've been a perfect gentlemen, and I intend to have my way with you."

"Emma—"

She cut off his protest with a kiss that tested the limits of his restraint. Dropping her voice to a level she knew he couldn't resist, she said, "Don't you want me, Killian?"

They hadn't exactly been the epitome of innocent these three months, but they'd been waiting to take that final physical step. It was different this time, with this girl— _the_  girl—and they both knew it.

The way Emma was looking at him had Killian more nervous than he'd been in his life. Because Killian didn't  _get_  nervous. Not when playing packed houses, not when he used to abscond with Connor's car and drive two counties over in service to late-night cravings, and certainly not when it came to this.

He was more certain than ever that Emma Nolan would be the death of him.

"Of course I  _want_  you—"

This was all the incentive she needed to drag him inside and press him up against the nearest hard surface. She began her assault at his mouth, doing things with her tongue that made him think twice about turning back, while simultaneously undoing the buttons on his shirt.

"Emma." It was bloody torture tearing himself away when he'd spent many a lonely hour imagining this moment. But it wasn't right. Something about it—something about  _her_ —was off. "Maybe we shouldn't do this when we've been at each other's throats all day."

When she looked at him, he saw traces of her dark mood resurface.

"It's just…you admitted you've been under stress. It feels like you're only doing this now to prove something. To me or to yourself, I don't know."

She stepped back, adjusting her ensemble as well as she could in its dampened state. "I guess it's goodnight, then."

"It doesn't have to be. If you would just talk to me—"

"Goodnight, Killian." She turned on her heel, crossing the foyer to the main staircase, and ascended without so much as a backward glance.

Killian was tempted to leave, tempted to call it  _giving her space_  instead of what it really was. But he was a better man than the one who'd raised him. In the end, he chose to heed the advice Connor had given but failed to follow. In the end, he chose to stay.

She answered on the third knock. "Go away, Ruby."

"Emma, it's me."

A pause and then, "Go away, Killian."

He opened the door slowly, taking tentative steps toward the vanity where she was seated, her back to him to hide her tear-stained cheeks, visible only through a gilded mirror cluttered with photographs.

"Emma…?" She didn't look at him until he kneeled in front of her. "I didn't mean to upset you, or…make you think I was reject—"

"I know." She took a deep breath, working hard to regain composure; Killian reached forward to wipe away her tears only to find his hand was not yet dry, a fact that brought back Emma's smile. "Will you stay with me?"

—

The photograph didn't catch his eye until Emma had been in the shower ten minutes. It was tucked into the gilded frame, along with her favorite assignments and Polaroids of her and Dave, her and Regina and Robin, her and Henry. There were a few of her and Killian from recent months, including one in which Westley had toppled her just in time for the flash, as well as the one from their first date. It was displayed next to the one that'd kept Mary Margaret company at the hospital, and the similarities were striking.

The image that held Killian's attention had been taken in one of those dollar booths at the fair and dated back to before he and Emma had parted as friends. That year, it'd been just the two of them—a first for their little group. He couldn't remember now what'd kept the others away, and he didn't much care. Killian and Emma had agreed not to tell their friends how much fun they'd had without them. Without Scarlet's whining about the heat making him sweat in places none of them wanted mental pictures of, without Jefferson goading Emma into accompanying him on rides she'd otherwise have avoided— _"What's the matter, Princess? Scared?"—_ without Neal telling them to,  _"just make out already,"_  because Killian was the only one among them who wasn't a complete arse when Emma got sick from the rollercoasters she shouldn't have ridden after eating nothing but funnel cakes all day. It was the one time of year when Kathryn wasn't on her about her diet, and Emma took full advantage.

_The photograph didn't catch his eye until she helped herself to Emma's bed, plopping down and feeling out the fluffy white comforter._

Killian sighed, running his hand through his still-dripping hair. If he'd known that night what he knew now, that Emma and Neal had broken things off months before and were not, as Cassidy had claimed,  _"banging like there's no tomorrow,"_  how differently the evening might've ended.

_"So this is where the princess lives."_

_"Don't call her that." Killian tore his eyes from the photograph that had his hand itching for another longneck bottle._

_"Why the fuck not? She's got more money than fucking Gold."_

_He shouldn't have followed her here. He would've sworn at the time that it'd been out of some sense of duty—he couldn't let some strange person rifle through Emma's things. But somewhere between the hallway and the door, the honorable side of him had drowned in a sea of hops._

_By the time guilt found him out, it was too late._

_"Just don't."_

_Callie's smile was pure mischief as she hopped off Emma's bed and sauntered toward him with a sway of her hips that only ever meant one thing. Killian didn't move when she pressed her body to his, when she closed her arms around his neck._

_"Has anyone ever told you that you have a sexy smolder?"_

_He didn't tell her not to kiss him—he should've done. He should've left his drunken announcement as the party's lowest point._

_A thousand emotions flashed in Emma's eyes in the span of second—confusion preceded recognition. It was followed by shock and anger and heartbreak all at once—as she looked on from the door he was almost certain they'd closed._

_"Swan—"_

"Killian?"

He turned quickly, as though swift movements would be more effective at shaking him of the past. He swallowed hard, rendered speechless by the sight of her. When was it that bath towels had gotten so small, Emma's legs so long?

It was only when she spoke again that he realized how far his hungry eyes had wandered from their intended target. "I found you some dry clothes." She handed him a bundle he hadn't seen her holding.

"Should I be worried that you have men's clothes in your closet?"

"Extremely." She grinned, standing up on her toes to kiss him.

"Probably not the best idea, presently."

She arched that infernal brow at him—he really needed to get that gesture trademarked so she could no longer use it against him. "I thought you were a gentleman."

"Even gentlemen feel pain, Love."

She smiled, not the least bit remorseful.

—

Emma was already under the covers when he returned from washing up, wide awake and waiting for him to join her. He smiled at the paperback she'd left on the pillow he'd call his for the night, and crawled in beside her. She nestled up close, draping her arm over his stomach, and settled in as Killian turned to the first page and began reading aloud.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged…"

If Killian had his choice of moments that could last forever, it would be the one in which Emma fell asleep with a quiet sigh, her body growing heavier against his as her last efforts to remain awake were overcome.

"Goodnight, Emma." He kissed the top of her head and set her book aside, hoping she'd find peace in dreaming.

—

"Don't you want to see how it ends?"

"She dies, he keeps the dog."

"Um…spoiler alert?"

Emma paused in the trail she'd been marking along every inch of exposed skin she could find while ignoring the valiant effort on the part of Netflix to hold her attention. "Didn't I say that?"

"You, in fact, did not."

"Oh, sorry. Spoiler alert."

Killian laughed as she resumed her attempts at distracting him, which had begun the exact moment they'd set aside the half-emptied takeout containers now littering the coffee table, along with the textbooks they had yet to open. "And here I thought you loved me for my mind, my clever wit, my—"

Emma sat up straight, looking him in the eye. "I love every part of you, Jones, but if you don't start groping me in the next two minutes, I'll be forced to take this show to a more appreciative audience."

"You drive a hard bargain, Swan."

"There'll be other mediocre movies—how often do we get the house to ourselves?"

"We've had the house to ourselves every night this week, if you'll recall."

"God bless the bakery for hiring your mom on full-time."

"We're going to flunk out of high school, you realize that, don't you?"

"Fine. We'll study. But I hope  _you_  realize that passing grades won't keep you warm at night."

_Bloody maddening lass._

Her laughter rang out when Killian pinned her against the couch, when his hands sought out her most ticklish areas and she tried to wriggle free.

"Killian!"

Then came the blessed sound of victory, the one Emma denied most adamantly whenever she was informed that she did, indeed, snort like a truffle hunting pig when provoked.

They froze in place at the echo of a door slamming closed, followed by footsteps in the foyer.

"I thought she was working late." Emma tended to her appearance and Killian got to his feet, not entirely sure where he was headed, just away from her.

"That was my understanding."

"What is she doing here?"

"What's who doing here?"

Standing under the archway, a duffel bag at his feet, was the last person Killian expected to see. He was across the room faster than he could say, "Liam," locking his brother in a long overdue embrace.

"I tried to make Mum's birthday, but all flights were grounded."

"Does she know you're here?"

Liam apparently shared the nervous tick Emma insisted Killian had; he scratched behind his ear, avoiding eye contact. "Doubt I'd make it through the door if she did."

Killian didn't realize Emma was at his side until she stepped forward to take his place, arms around Liam and the two exchanging pleasantries.

Drawing back, Liam cut his glance between them and narrowed his eyes. "Something's different here."

Neither Killian nor Emma rushed to offer an explanation.

"You're shagging, aren't you? About bloody time."

"Unbelievable." Killian rolled his eyes. "Home ten seconds and already making an arse of yourself."

"That isn't a  _'no.'_ "

"We're not shagging."

"Yet." Emma winked at him, flashing a cheeky grin when Killian shot her a glare, and Liam clapped him on the shoulder, laughing heartily.

"I hate you both."

The three of them moved to the kitchen, where Killian warmed up food for the weary traveler and Emma listened to Liam spin tales of his European tour. Every so often, Killian fought the impulse to pinch himself as he gazed back at the table, his favorite people in the world seated opposite each other. There was a time he was sure he'd never see either of them again.

They were so completely lost to their own distractions that it was a full minute after the screen door clattered against its frame that any of them took notice of the newest addition to their party. Liam was the first to move, pushing his chair back as he stood, terror like Killian had never seen widening his eyes.

"Hi, Mum."

No one breathed in the seconds between this greeting and Killian's mother losing grip on her handbag. He'd expected Liam's presence to rekindle her fury. What he hadn't expected was the slack jawed expression, the stunned silence at her eldest son's return. The tension broke when she crossed the kitchen, slowly at first and then as though she couldn't reach him fast enough.

She cradled his face in her hands—not the simplest task given the height difference there—and whispered, "My boy." Liam hugged her then, and she said, "I knew you'd come back to me."

—

Later that night, after Killian took Emma home and the excitement of Liam's reappearance had been traded for collective exhaustion, the brothers bid their mother goodnight and trudged up the stairs in search of places to lay their heads.

Killian had scarcely breached the threshold to his room when Liam called him back. He spoke in hushed tones and glanced over his shoulder about as often as he blinked. In Killian's tired state, it took longer than it should have to make sense of what he was saying.

"You want me to go with you to London? Now?"

"Yes."

Killian stared at his brother like he might've been a shape-shifter sent back in Liam's place. "Can't it wait until we've graduated?"

"We? You want to bring Emma?"

He hadn't really entertained thoughts of the alternative. Of course she had a choice in the matter, but Killian would prefer this year's trip include her. "Why not? She's never been."

"It's a bit of a family situation."

"Should I tell Emma you don't consider her family?" Killian meant it as a joke, but Liam was not in the mood.

"What I said about wanting to make Mum's birthday was true, but it wasn't grounded flights that kept me. I was packed and set to leave when there was a knock at the door."

Killian yawned, rubbing his eyes. "You could at least wait for me to lie down before you start in on story time."

Liam gave his arm a firm shove. "Are you incapable of taking anything seriously?"

"Are you incapable of being less cryptic?"

"Killian, he found me. All this time I've been searching for him, and there he was, waiting outside my flat like a gift from the gods."

"Who?"

"Dad."

"Connor?"

"No, not Connor. Our father, Killian. He found me, and he wants to meet you."


End file.
